The Age Page 10

  The weather remains cold, sky a muslin blur. The first rain brings a ghastly shower that drives everyone to shelter, skin marked by hard black drops, the sting of poison. Some change their minds, slide basins and buckets outside to catch the tarry rainfall. They boil it at the fire until it separates, then slurp the clear liquid, an extravagance of unrationed water. An outbreak of purple spots amongst the drinkers frightens everyone to seal themselves inside whenever the sky opens.

  In the middle of a downpour peaked by thunder and lightning, air raid sirens sound. The boy and girl cling to each other on the cot, stiffen with each clap and explosion of light, terrified by what may be left unfinished.

  For days after, while women scrape sticky black residue from the beach and common areas, men argue over the meaning of the siren. A few insist it a signal, a call to gather, evidence of a governing force, an all clear. Dan and the majority disagree, deem it an accident triggered by electrical currents in the air. They warn against false hope.

  A dense curtain of fog blocks visibility past the waterline. On the beach, the fire burns day and night. People claim to hear sounds from the water, boat engines, voices in conversation, but no one has the energy to investigate what Dan dismisses as the mind playing tricks.

  Inside the hut, the boy and girl fill the small stove with wood before going to sleep, huddle together on the pullout bed, blankets and coats piled to trap heat. He sleeps behind her, face buried in her hair. While she dreams, she draws his arm around her, holds it to her chest.

  Each morning he wakes with his hardness pressed against her backside. Eyes closed, he lingers there as his hips urge slow, hidden rhythms, the sweet friction of worn cotton transmitting her body heat. He continues until guilt or hopelessness overtake him. After his retreat, she makes a show of waking, soft yawns and murmurs as her fingers reach to rub her eyes.

  She leaves the cabin before him each morning, traipses to the woods to do her bathroom business. The boy stands at the window and watches her recede, the narrow cup of her hips, bony shoulders, abuses himself to dilute the wanting.

  He knows people in camp are having sex, hears them in the forest, on the beach after dark, their huffs and pants, a hard-won race, the mindless cross of a finish line. And not the husband-and-wife pairings of mealtime. Spouses take sides against each other in camp business, a wife aligns herself with the dissenting voice of someone else’s husband. Jealousy fuels accusations of theft and hoarding, husband against husband, wife against wife. Dan settles these matters with unilateral justice, punishes both wrongdoer and accuser with half-rations of food.

  Mrs. Lawson, five months’ pregnant on the Last Day, reminds everyone of the consequences. She gives birth prematurely. Her shouts and cries carry down from the clinic house to the beach. Dr. Woo, revered for his whispery disposition, barks orders and expletives over Dr. Patak’s impatient temper.

  People gather around the fire throughout the day to speculate on the birth’s progress, until finally, chores abandoned, they dedicate themselves to waiting. Men stand in a circle, poke at the flames, women chatter amongst themselves, some pale with worry, some pink with stories of their own labour, others ashen with the grief of lost children. Mrs. Lawson’s cries swell, then subside, then swell again. The girl reaches for the boy’s hand, her grip tight. The crowd holds its breath.

  After a hopeful period of quiet, Dr. Patak steps out onto the sundeck, stumbles to the deck rail and everyone quiets for her pronouncement. A heave of red vomit rushes out of her, splatters steaming on the sand below. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and stalks back to the house. Hours later, Mr. Lawson exits by the basement door, carries a blood-soaked pillowcase. Arm rigid, he holds the article far from his trembling body. Dr. Woo follows him with a shovel.

  GERRY STANDS ON THE PEDALS OF HER BIKE, rides a slow, controlled slalom down the hill, forces the cars behind her to change lanes. Her muscles shudder with the effort. The horn blares make her smile. At the bottom of the hill, she tucks as the traffic light slips to amber, swerves around a car turning right.

  She pants as she sprints, a buzz in her ears, a new looseness in her body, wonders if she will seem different without Ian, like girls at school who lose their virginity, bragging chatter and gossip replaced by sly smiles, their faces etched older, more knowing overnight. Perhaps she should have done that first, had sex with him, womanhood achieved and friendship dissolved in one grand gesture. Her gut sours at the thought of him seeing her naked. She hates the idea of virginity, a gift to be given to or taken by or saved for a boy, prefers to think of doing it herself, finding a boy and using him for the task. Someone inexperienced who could get it over quickly and wouldn’t disgust her in the process. She would do it in the dark without making a sound. She would keep most of her clothes on.

  Boys at school are out of the question. Their idea of a come-on a centrefold pinned to her locker door, an oil-slicked blonde in a torn cop’s uniform, nightstick buried between her legs, the word CUNT scrawled across her face in red felt. The metal heads howled, paper bag lunches swinging from their fists, while the preppy girls snickered beside her, huddled in a protective cloud of Giorgio. One of them mouthed, Eat me. When Gerry reached to tear down the picture, a peeled orange exploded against her locker, splattered her face with juice.

  She rides through the cemetery, the careful order of monuments, headstones nested in trimmed grass relaxes her. Along the crematorium path, a line of blossoming cherry trees. She raises her hands, bats their swelled branches, showers herself in fleshy petals.

  By Megan’s block, she’s brushed away most of the blossoms. She coasts to a stop just before Megan’s house. The toes of her sneakers drag. Sun distorts the curves and colour of metal, plays tricks with cars. She rolls forward to see past the rusty green VW camper. Ian’s car hunkers behind it, chrome grill like a half-grin telling her nothing has changed.

  She feeds Clem chicken à la king from a warm bowl. He nods his head to avoid her spoon, his only interest the television, Wink Martindale’s lacquered hair, square teeth, and wandlike microphone.

  Laughter from the kitchen. Clem chuckles along.

  She wipes his chin. “Traitor.” Tries not to think of the embarrassment of catching Ian halfway between Megan’s bedroom and the bathroom, his body flushed and bare except for his briefs. Then Michelle and Andri coming through the back door, so that Gerry had to swivel to show she hadn’t been staring, her face on fire. “The prodigal son,” Andri had called out. Gerry had no idea what he meant. But Andri was in good spirits, wrestled off his parka and two cardigans, babbled about the strengths of the new device. When Megan emerged from the bathroom, Ian’s Iggy Pop T-shirt tight across her bra-less chest, Gerry volunteered to feed Clem, couldn’t bear listening to them get on without her.

  She touches the food to Clem’s lips, a signal for him to open. The television audience applauds.

  “He’s sure gonna miss you.” Michelle smiles from the doorway.

  Gerry scrapes the dribbles from his lip with the edge of her spoon. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”

  “He knows.”

  “Maybe I’ll visit him in the home.” Gerry searches Clem’s face for a flicker of agreement but finds none.

  Michelle’s hands settle like birds on top of her stomach. She’s grown so big, it’s hard to believe Andri isn’t taking her home each night and inflating her with a bicycle pump. “Come back in when you’re done, okay?”

  Gerry takes her time, watches Clem swallow, lumps of food slipping under the fabric of his skin. She consoles herself with game show victories, hysteria over washing machines and luggage sets, imagines throwing her arms around Wink’s tanned neck.

  In the kitchen, Andri sits with his arm around Michelle, fiddles with drawings curled in a roll on the table. Megan stands at the ironing board, a notepad and pen beside her on the counter. At her feet, Clem’s washed shirts hang over the edge of the laundry basket like wrinkled ghosts. Gerry takes the empty seat beside Miche
lle. Ian sprawls in his chair, head cocked to avoid her, a smirk in the corners of his mouth.

  “So. Now that that’s all settled.” Megan smiles. Her face appears lit from the inside, cheeks high with colour, eyes like mirrors. “Andri and I have decided to make an adjustment.”

  Andri leans across to Gerry. “My idea.”

  Megan nods. “We want Gerry to do the drop.”

  Gerry’s mind rearranges Megan’s words, tries to make sense of them.

  “She’s smaller, so she’ll have a better chance ducking the cameras. She’s younger, which makes the cover story more believable. And, as Andri pointed out, the law offers her more protection.”

  The fluorescent bars of the ceiling light seem brighter than usual, force Gerry to blink. Heat rises in her face.

  Ian tips his chair back. “Bitchin’. You guys want to make me feel like shit, go right ahead, knock yourselves out.”

  Andri looks up. “Who cares how you feel?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Ian shakes his head at Gerry. “Do not believe it.”

  A milky haze gums her eyelids and she worries she might cry for no reason. A hand touches her arm.

  “It’s okay.” Michelle’s voice, small and far away.

  Gerry presses the table edge to ground herself, then rubs at her eyes. “I’m fine.” The table tilts in front of her.

  Michelle shifts closer. Her belly presses into Gerry’s arm. “Put your head between your knees.”

  “Are you watching this? You’re torturing her.” Ian pushes out of his chair, posts himself beside the fridge, arms across his chest.

  “She’s fine,” Megan says.

  “I wouldn’t count on it. She used to have these episodes when she was a little kid.”

  “Shut up!” Gerry wills herself not to look at him. “I’m okay.” She feels herself nodding.

  “You’re changing the plan a week out?” Ian shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “A week is a long time.” Andri’s furry hands play with the drawings. “Do you want to go to jail, Ian?”

  “Well, Andri, I know you don’t.” He turns to Megan. “Or you either. It’s not exactly like father, like daughter, is it?”

  Megan smooths a sleeve on the ironing board. “What if you don’t show? What if you show, but you’re too fucked up to pull it off?”

  Ian laughs. “Well, what a hypocrite you turned out to be, Snow fucking White.” He leans against the fridge, stares at Gerry. “How’s it going over there? You getting that floaty feeling? Her mom thought it was epilepsy or something. Turns out it was just stress. A nine-year-old stress case.”

  “Shut! Up!” The room wavers as if the walls and cupboards are painted on fabric. Gerry focuses on the back door until the window sets in its frame, the floor hardens beneath her feet. “I’m fine.”

  Ian nods to Megan. “I need to talk to you in the other room.” He stares, but she resists his gaze. The iron puffs steam.

  Andri shakes his head. “How you do things, it’s tempestuous. You’ll get caught, you’ll go to jail. And then, we all go to jail. This girl” – his eyebrows rise as he points to her – “she is the perfect operative. She makes our cover story make sense. She does not look suspect. I have confidence.” He taps a thick finger to his jacket. Gerry feels the thud in her own chest, repeated, as if he’s jump-started her heart. “Even if she gets caught, what will they do? Scratch their heads.” He smiles at her and she feels flushed with gratitude. Andri sits back in his chair, tips his chin at Ian. “This is the plan. No argument. If you want out, if you want to go, now is a good time.”

  Ian points at Megan. “This isn’t for real.”

  Megan shrugs. “It is.”

  He steps away from the fridge, pulls his keys from his pocket, jangles them in the air, nods to Gerry. “Come on.”

  She looks to Megan for confirmation. Megan buttons a finished shirt onto a hanger. “Do whatever you want, sweetheart.”

  Ian jitters in front of her.

  “I’m staying.”

  He kicks the side of the fridge. Gerry jumps in her seat.

  “Ian,” Michelle murmurs.

  “Oh, come off it!” His shout echoes in the small room. “There is no. Fucking. Way.” He stares at Gerry. “This is never gonna happen.”

  She reads it in his face, the shock of all of them against him, a fracture below the surface, hobbling and permanent. His gaze drifts, lost, and she is surprised by how difficult it is to watch him flounder. “I’m responsible for her.” He points at her, his eyes on Andri. He makes her sound like an animal, something tied to a fence.

  “The girl wants to stay,” Andri says gently.

  Hands on his hips, head bowed, Ian rubs his palm over his face. He turns for the back door. Michelle takes Gerry’s hand, squeezes it.

  Ian pauses at the threshold. He kicks the door with his boot. The small window rattles. She watches the glass quake, waits for it to shatter. Rooted in his spot, he slams the door, opens it, slams it over and over. When he finally knocks the door closed with his boot, the quiet is a relief. He stands with his back hunched, jams his fists into his pockets, flaps his elbows like wings, stares up at the ceiling. “So now what?”

  For a while, no one speaks. Gerry doesn’t breathe.

  “Now,” Andri chuckles. “We eat crow.”

  Megan shakes her head. “You eat crow.”

  Andri rolls the drawings, taps them against the table. “Yes. Okay. I eat crow.”

  Gerry struggles to decipher their code. Ian turns, his face a replica of her confusion. Michelle rubs Gerry’s shoulder. “Told you it was okay.”

  Megan starts on another shirt. “Andri had no faith.”

  Andri shrugs. “I’m an atheist.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gerry says it loud enough to hear herself.

  Ian shakes his head. “Assholes. All of you.”

  “Take it as a warning.” Andri pounds the table with his fingers. “You cannot just show up when you like.”

  “What are you saying?” Gerry’s desperation echoes back in answer.

  Megan’s brow furrows. Her eyes flit to Ian. “It was a test. He passed. We need to know we can count on each other.”

  Gerry eases out of Michelle’s grasp. Ian stares at her, his face drawn with relief. She waits for the insult, the put-down. That it doesn’t come only makes the moment worse.

  “It was never going to be you, Gerry Mouse.”

  Andri chuckles. “Don’t be so sure.”

  Gerry slides from her chair. Their cooing attempts to keep her stop as soon as she’s out the back door. Their silence follows her, airy absence as she climbs onto her bike and rides away.

  DOWNTOWN SHE FINDS A 7-ELEVEN, buys a pack of menthol cigarettes and two fistfuls of red licorice. She locks her bike to the rack outside. Across the street, an office tower’s mirrored windows reflect the setting sun. The road crackles with the slow roll of rush hour traffic as she walks to Robson Street.

  “1999” pumps from a cruising car. Spring break has made a Mecca of shopping. Outside shoe stores, jewellers, hair salons, girls worship in pods, swathed in white with neon accessories, elbows dangling plastic bags blazed with labels, fingers busy with whipped drinks and frozen yogurt. Gerry gnaws at her candy, washes it down with a waterfall of minty smoke. Even though the girls are strangers, they know to stare, assess with their gaze, fall into giggles as they pass her. She tries to ignore them, imagine the storefronts dark, street cleansed of superficial consumption, filled instead with marchers carrying signs, shouting slogans, Prince’s bass line replaced by the pounding of protest drums. The shops are garbage, logo after logo, uniforms for brainwashed masses. Only one window impresses her, an out-of-business tobacco shop, its half-empty display of lighters and switchblades dusty and mean.

  She finishes the last of the licorice just as her stomach starts to churn, her body drunk on syrup and ash. The shade of the arched pass-through beckons, the shortcut she mapped, a route none of
the others had considered. She slouches there, shadowed between the street and the alley, watches girls with crimped hair, glazed lips, and turned-up collars prance past in jelly shoes, tries not to throw up.

  In the alley behind the revenue building, security lights buzz. Their frequencies harmonize over the percussive drip of a drainpipe. Crouched beside a dumpster, Gerry watches the concrete steps, her feet numb inside her sneakers, wet from walking and rewalking the route.

  A clever paint job camouflages the small metal box. The security door opens and closes, raincoats, suits, umbrellas, goodbyes. The office workers pay the box no attention. A shopping cart rattles, then stops, then rattles again. The breeze turns and the fishy stench of garbage forces Gerry to shift her position, breathe through her mouth. Office workers mutter conversation, shoes scuff concrete, water burbles through a drain. In the parking lot across the alley, cars idle.

  It takes time for her to build up the courage. She waits through the blue dusk, the swish and rumble of traffic. Above her, the sky between buildings darkens. A woman stops just outside the door to check for rain, shakes an umbrella at the ready. Her hesitation offers a glimpse into the hallway, a white channel, a small camera mounted near the ceiling. The woman steps aside and knocks the door closed with her hip. Gerry counts to a hundred.

  She takes the stairs carefully, listens for voices, the tap of heels. The cover on the metal box is spring-loaded, stubborn against the pry of her fingers. Inside, a beige keypad with a black faceplate and white rubber buttons, the tiny display screen shows a red digital zero, beside it, two tiny, unlit bulbs, one red, one green.