Transits (6 page)

More than anything, Lily loved the stories of saints. Secretly she adored Saint Francis; fantasized brushing his companion fox's crimson tail, and feeding the birds every morning after a breakfast of hot chocolate and homemade waffles. She imagined that he lived in a house like the seven dwarves, tiny and neat, a charming reprieve from the murky darkness of an overgrown forest.

During the party, Lily's mom moved the Toyota and the push-lawn-mower out of the garage to make room for a dance floor and a gift table, which, Lily pointed out, was really two TV trays covered in a paper tablecloth left over from her ninth birthday party. It had a clown with a vacant grin and stubby legs standing on top of a cake, translucent grease stains pockmarking his rotund body. Lily helped blow up tiny bags of balloons, breaking the Scotch tape with her teeth when her mom wasn't looking, affixing them to cases of beer and tool racks in off-kilter sunburst patterns. Sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, her mom picked out Burton Cummings and Elton John records, removing the Abba that her father always threatened to drive over.

“Why can't I stay?” Lily moaned. Her mother leaned back and chucked her under the chin.

“I told you it's for grown-ups, honey. We'll have a family night at Mother's Pizza when you come home. I promise.”

Lily speculated that her eviction had something to do with the time that Bill, the neighbour from two doors down who let Lily stroke the head of a bear he dragged back from a hunting trip, once bet her ten dollars that she couldn't eat an entire package of lime flavoured bar mix. Never one to turn down a bet, or ten dollars, Lily threw up spaghetti and garlic bread behind Bill's new black leather and chrome bar.

A frantic honking sound interrupted Lily's self pity. “C'mon along darlin', let's get rolling,” Margaret, Lily's grandmother, called in her singsong voice. Margaret had only been driving for two years, a necessity after the police had charged Lily's grandfather with drinking and driving after his car smashed headfirst into a electric pole outside of Mac's Milk, knocking out power in the neighbourhood for several hours. It was also about this time that Lily's mom stopped talking to her parents, and Nana Margaret started honking the horn when she picked up Lily.

Margaret had developed an emotional bond with the car that surpassed that of her long, suffering marriage. Lily's grandfather, who previously grumbled about “those damn broad drivers,” accepted the affair when he realized drinking was more pleasurable with someone to take him home at the end of the night. Margaret didn't mind; she loved the novelty and power, dressing her hair up in flowery scarves, and honking that horn, just to listen to the sound that she alone controlled.

She drove a second hand brown Pinto with toasted leather seats that smelled like ancient cigarette fumes and their old beagle, Brownie. The dog vanished one day while Lily's grandfather was out for a walk in the conservation area that ran alongside their house. He still mourned the dog's loss, although the neighbours, and Lily, collectively let out a sigh of relief that the feral scavenger who destroyed flowers, Barbie dolls, and tormented children, was finally gone for good.

Lily climbed into the Pinto, put on her seatbelt, and tried breathing out of her mouth to avoid the muggy smell of Brownie. She curled her knees up to her chin, and ran her hands over her shins, brushing the pale blond hairs that covered them in a translucent sheen. Margaret looked over her right shoulder and narrowly missed the garbage can as she pulled out of the driveway. She grabbed a handful of silver hair with one hand, and turned the wheel with the palm of her other.

“Oh Lily, I have awful news.”

Lily immediately thought Brownie had returned. “Uh, what is it Nana?”

“Paddy's sick dear. I'm not sure he's going to make it. Tonight when you say your prayers, you must pray for Father Patrick. Be sure to say a special one to Saint Jude…”

“Impossible causes?” Lily knew it was bad if she called in Jude, Nana's secret-love saint. Jude found her keys when they were lost under pilled tissues in the bottom of her purse. Jude helped with expensive car repairs. Saint Jude even located Margaret's Pinto on the H-level of a Toronto Eaton Centre parking garage after Margaret had convinced mall security guards that it had been stolen.

“And don't forget all those poor African children who have nothing to eat. Never, ever forget how lucky you are.” Margaret had recently started corresponding with two African children through a Catholic charity, and would read Lily their monthly letters, hanging their drawings and homemade cards with pineapple shaped magnets from Florida on the fridge alongside hers.

Lily fought with the jealousy; she even prayed to Mary for it to stop, rubbing her hands over and over against the nubby chenille bedspread in an attempt to burn it out. Envy was a terrible sin, according to the moustached textbook kids.

That night, after two games of Clue and a chapter of Nancy Drew's “The Hidden Staircase,” Lily fell asleep tracing the pattern of the purple violets on the wallpaper, listening to her grandfather hand-roll and chop cigarettes on his laptop machine in the living room. The violets on the wallpaper reminded her of the veil she wore for her First Communion; its trim of tiny satin rosebuds tickled her forehead and made her think of Saint Veronica. According to catechism, Veronica gave Jesus her handkerchief to wipe his face, leaving its holiest of impressions on the cloth. Sometimes when she was bored, Lily would pull the veil out of the tissue paper from its suit-box under her parents' bed, and pretend that her cat, Sam, was Jesus. Although no one had ever told her that pretending a cat was the holy saviour was a sin, she suspected as much, and kept it as her own deliciously private offense.

“Don't forget to pray for Father Patrick,” her grandmother called in. Lily, too tired, too heavy to kneel again, feeling the weight of her grandfather's beery chili and chocolate cake, made a deal with herself to wake up early and make up for the night prayer. In the morning, she would pray twice for Paddy.

The next afternoon, as Margaret dropped Lily in front of the house, she called out the car window, “Tell your mom that you need to go to church this week to pray for Paddy.” Lily threw her knapsack over one shoulder and ran in the house. “I'll tell her, I promise!” she yelled, realizing that she forgot her morning prayer. That's three prayers on an IOU, she scolded herself.

The week was filled with routines fashionable with the first generation of parents who read books on positive parenting. Monday was soccer and hotdogs. Tuesday was Girl Guides. Wednesday a movie at Heather's house. On Thursday, Lily's grandmother called just before she left for her piano lesson. “Father Paddy's taken a turn for the worse. Have you told your mom about going to church to pray?”

Lily could feel Saint Francis shake his head in disgus—she imagined him picking up his animals and walking away into the forest, closing the door to his tiny abode. She took a deep breath, and let it happen. “Yes, we're going tonight.” Her throat closed up with destiny's seal. Lucifer. Satan, Hitler. Men in white vans who did unspeakable things to children. That's where she was headed.

But then it was pizza Friday at school and a sleepover at Kim's—whose parents were atheists—where they practiced jazz dance routines, made crush lists, and let Kim's hamster out of its cage to run around in their sleeping bags. When she arrived home on Saturday morning, pillow slung over her arm, Lily's mom came into the hallway, holding a pound of frozen meat wrapped in cellophane. “Your grandmother left a message. She said something about church and Paddy. She'll be here at five.”

“Right,” Lily stuttered slightly. “Well, you know Nana. Always on about that priest Paddy.”

Her mom laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh I know. If she wasn't so damn pious…” She stopped mind-sentence, patting Lily on the head. Lily thought about telling her mom how big of a sin it was to swear, but instead, ran up to her room, heart pounding with the promise of more prayers later.

Promptly at five, Lily's grandmother honked the horn. Tonight her parents were going to a potluck party. They were bringing beef stroganoff, Lily's mom scooping noodles into a brown and green ceramic bowl made by some “flaky hippy,” as her dad said every time
she pulled it out of the cupboard.

Margaret began talking before Lily even closed the car door. “Paddy didn't make it, honey. The funeral's on Monday.” Margaret kept her eyes on the steering wheel and didn't turn away.

Lily felt her face getting warm. The smell of Brownie seemed stronger than usual. She looked down and started running her hands over her legs.

“But he went to a good place, he's in peace knowing that you prayed so hard for him. I told him last night. And you even went to church—I'll admit I wasn't sure that you would go.” Margaret stroked Lily's cheek and kissed her forehead. “I'm so proud of you.”

Lily swallowed and nodded her head down to one side in what she thought looked like genuine saintly sorrow. She rolled down the car window. It was going to be one long hot journey ahead.

by Maggie Dort

Day One

The landing in Whitehorse is rough. The airport always emerges out of the mountains just in time to catch what feels like a free fall to certain death. It feels like coming home. Too familiar.

The Yukon is a weird combination of tacky tourist attractions, fancy hotels, and cruddy little bars. It is a town of Outdoor People. Everybody fishes and kayaks and hikes and they all wear shorts in June out of spite. Secretly they all know it is still too cold.

Day Two

It is always light here and I'm lonesome for things I've never had, places I've never been. I want to go home but I don't know where that is anymore.

When I get back to Halifax, I'll go to the doctor and she'll give me a prescription and the knot in my stomach will go away.

Day Three

It's still daylight. I went to the Frantic Follies, a vaudeville revue. There were cancan girls and banjos and skits and bad jokes. I've seen it a hundred times. I drove home on bright, empty, nighttime streets. Sometimes I get so caught up with being lonesome and worrying about dumb girly things that I forget how much I love it up here. The Yukon's got different rules. Fuck. I'm gonna quit school and build a log cabin and grow a beard and pan for gold for the rest of my days.

Day Four

The grandfather clock in the living room is counting out midnight. The sky is a stupid pink and I'm thinking about staying up all night. I think I'll go out and sit in the grass and write poems about that chunk of mud that gets stuck on the end of your handle bars when you fling your bike down on the lawn, back wheel still spinning. About how I think about you when I'm rounding the corner of an aisle in the dollar store. About not sleeping.

Day Five

I won a free plane ride. Round trip. “Where to?” I asked.

“Well, back here.” The guy thinks he's pretty funny.

But it was amazing. A little six-seater that looked like it was made of tinfoil. We flew over the Takhini river, to the old Livingston town site where there are still a few shacks and mines, up to Mount Black, and back around. It took about an hour. Sometimes the mountains were just right there, almost scraping the wings. They were still covered in snow and there were some little frozen lakes. I sat behind the pilot, facing backwards. If I pivoted around a bit, I could look over the pilot's shoulder and out over the nose of the plane. It made me feel dizzy and happy and stupidly excited about life.

Day Six

I went kayaking by myself. I sat in ballet pose and used my feet to control the rudder, and my left leg went directly to sleep. When I tried to get out, the leg slowly collapsed under me and I was neck-deep in Chadburn Lake.

Later I played ultimate frisbee in my bare feet. All the boys wore cleats and when they looked at me I said I was from the East Coast. In bed my bright green feet curled up in unrelenting cramps.

Day Seven

The city of Whitehorse is 2305 feet above sea level. When you bake a cake, you have to adjust the recipe to account for the elevation. I don't know what you change, though, ‘cause I don't bake cakes. Maybe the soda.

Day Eight

The bartender at the Kopper King, some kind of biker bar, is from Antigonish. I dreamt about Stan Rogers. A man named Larry bought me a drink. “I wanna buy you a drink....what's your name again?” He kept slurring at me. He owns the concrete empire of the Yukon. A catch for sure. After I shook his hand I pictured him peeing and not washing afterwards. He seemed disappointed in me, but honestly, what kind of lady puts out for a 2 dollar Kokanee?

I guess I'm going home now. It's a long fucking way.

Day Nine

There's a photo booth here at the airport, and I have a weird desire to take pictures of myself crying. Except I'm spending my change on the internet, sending you impersonal emails that leave out all the things I'd wish you'd say to me.

Day Ten

At the bar at the airport in Halifax I discovered Caesars. Clamtastic! Somewhere between Vancouver and Toronto, I woke up panicky. I clawed my way out of my seat and staggered down the aisle a bit, and then passed out, hitting my head on something on the way down. I spent the rest of the flight with my head between my knees, holding a paper bag. Dehydration and exhaustion and not eating. Apparently it's common on the red eye flights. Travel exhausts me.

by Jaime Forsythe

Andy is secured under sheets with hospital corners and a duvet splashed with roses. It's a time for counting sheep; he counts his possessions instead. This is an easy game. The lights are out but he knows what lies scattered over the carpet of his mother's guest room. A picture frame, a stiff knapsack, a ceramic whale with a blowhole where a toothbrush may be inserted, and a soup ladle. Sale items his mother has picked up to help him get back on his feet. Things for holding other things. The room is crammed with much more, of course, down to the bed skirt frilling the mattress and the crocheted doorknob cover. His mother likes to decorate. Andy pictures himself setting off down the sidewalk, knapsacked, holding his whale and his ladle, the empty frame hanging around his neck. He doesn't doubt that all the housewares his mother will continue to buy for him will seem just as absurd, just as cold, just as unfriendly.