The Age Read online

  In the living room, tufted diamond-shaped cushions balance on points across the sofa, the coffee table candy dish brims with silver- and gold-wrapped sweets, even the Kleenex box is pretty, swathed in a crocheted cover. At the centre of the mantel, a single smoked-mirror picture frame, the photograph small, scalloped around the edges, stained an amber tint: a girlish Mrs. Cross in a wedding dress, arm linked with a handsome young man in a tall hat who is obviously not Henry.

  Gerry lingers over the careful details of Mrs. Cross’s life, frilly lace curtains, the tapered wooden feet of the coffee table cupped by polished castors. Matching horse miniatures trot across each of the end tables. The order of the room, the effort to maintain it, fills her with calm.

  She finds Henry in the den, kneeled in front of a wooden filing cabinet, a paper grocery bag under his arm. “You never told me she was married before.”

  “Give me a hand with this.”

  While she holds open the bag, Henry plucks folders from the cabinet, stuffs them in. Files tip upside down, paper sloshes free. “So, who was her first husband?”

  “Some bozo.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “He had the good sense to die in a war.”

  “What are you doing with all this stuff?”

  “I’m going to read it.”

  “And then?”

  “Burn it.”

  His answer skitters inside her. He forces one last file into the bulging bag, grips the desk’s corner to hoist himself. His hands brush at his trousers. “How about some lunch?”

  ——

  In the tidy living room, they watch the noon news. Henry stretches in his former recliner, a bowl of soup in his lap, plate to his chest as he chews his ham sandwich. Gerry has settled her bowl and plate on top of two placemats on the coffee table, laid a tea towel laid across the carpet in case of drips. She perches on the edge of the couch, hovers over her chicken noodle soup, careful to brush the crumbs from her face into the bowl. Henry watches her. “You’re missing the point of the exercise. The stains, the debris,” he points to his forehead, “that’s the psychological warfare.”

  Gerry nods but can’t bring herself to make a mess.

  The newscast bears out Andri’s prediction. Distorted film footage of Soviet warships gathering, what the Soviets call “routine relocation.”

  “Look at that face.” Henry waves his sandwich at the newscaster. “So smooth, it’s plastic. How can you trust a man with no lines in his face?”

  She tries to block out Henry’s ranting, listens to a recap of the lead story, an Iraqi MIG-23 shot down over Basra in an unprecedented offensive by Iranian forces. A measled map of the Gulf flashes as the plastic newscaster nods earnestly. Superpower intervention, now inevitable, is anticipated early in the week. The newscaster smiles as he segues into a story about banning thong bikinis.

  “It’s that bloody CNN’s fault. Have you seen their anchors? Big hair, big teeth. It’s like a herd of goddamn lions reading the news. Mark my words, the David Brinkleys of the world will soon be replaced with Christie Brinkleys, twenty-four-hour titties telling you about the latest Ayatollah. Goddamn, that Barbara Walters ruined it for everybody.”

  The thrum of warship engines.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they squeeze your favourite news anchor out of a job.”

  She hums in agreement as she chews, imagines the stealth progress of Soviet submarines, dark hulls that surround the city, crowd the harbour, break the surface like angry whales.

  “Are you paying attention? I’m talking about something important here. A man’s livelihood. Something about to go terribly wrong.”

  “Is this still about Barbara Walters?”

  “Earning potential, pay grades, bonus schedules, profit-sharing. Those are a man’s domain.”

  His explanation only confuses her more. “My mom has a job.” The fact comes out of her like a question.

  “Oh sure, mad money, trinkets and furs. But let me ask you this: who’s paying for that in-ground swimming pool?”

  Right away, she recognizes this as one of Henry’s trick questions, the kind with an answer so convoluted, any guess she makes will leave her feeling foolish. She waits him out.

  He throws up his hands. “Your father.”

  The mention of him stills her.

  “I mean, what a waste. A swimming pool in this city. It would be cheaper to just fly you down to live with your dad every summer.”

  Sandwich mush swells in her mouth, her lips and chin suddenly numb. “He said that?”

  Henry picks up his spoon, tows it back and forth through his soup. “He said that? Well, not exactly.” He stares at the TV and heaves a loud, grumbly sigh. “But it’s simple economics. Obvious to anyone.”

  “Well, what did he say, exactly? About me seeing him in the summer?”

  Henry’s usual bluster sinks into a sheepish grimace. “I may have overstated the case.”

  She struggles to swallow. The glob of sandwich drags inside her, tunnels a pain through her throat and back. “But he talked about it?”

  Henry shakes his head. “Mostly we talk about father-son type stuff, career advice, financials.”

  The father-son stings her, an equation into which she doesn’t factor. “Does he say anything about me?”

  “Well, of course.” Henry’s bluster comes back as irritation. “But, I mean, it’s complicated, obviously. Your father and I, as you know, years of estrangement between us, a lot of dirty water under that bridge. Years we’ll never get back. But look, the man’s not a machine, he’s not an animal. He cares about you very much, although I’m sure your mother has convinced you otherwise. He’s just, and I’m not making excuses for him here, he’s under a lot of pressure. He’s made some bad decisions, no doubt. But he’s not a bad man. And this summer, well, this summer might not be good for him, but there’s always next summer, or the summer after that.”

  She takes a deep breath, her father’s nearness a charge in the air, the sense of him moving closer.

  “I’ll tell you, he was more than a little jealous when I told him we were spending time together.”

  “He was?”

  “I was far too busy for things like this when he was growing up.”

  “Oh.” Not the jealousy she was hoping for.

  “Maybe this sort of thing just skips a generation.” Henry lifts his soup bowl to his chin, slurps up a heap of noodles. “The point I was trying to make.” His hand feels for his napkin, brings it to his lips with a firm swipe. “Do you know what alimony is?”

  She nods, eager to hear whatever he might know about her parents’ divorce, about her father’s true nature.

  “Well, you know in theory. Let’s hope you never understand in practice. Men have responsibilities, liabilities, families. You can’t just pull the rug out from under them. It’s neither humane nor gentlemanly. Which is why today, I marched into the station manager’s office and told him point-blank.”

  Despite the firm grip of her attention, the topic of her father is long gone, lost down some winding back road.

  “Take your fucking co-anchor idea and shove it up your A-hole.” His final word hangs in the air. The two of them sit in silence. She forces a smile to show she’s still having a good time.

  Henry stares at the spoon in his bowl. “Well, not those exact words, but you get the drift.”

  Gerry rests her face against the car window, damp glass a salve for her bruises. Henry hums with the radio violins as he drives. Outside, the world looks false and two-dimensional. Buildings like facades, people like groomed extras, even the dogs trained into their roles. The real life, the real people, the real families are in Santa Clara. Every couple of months her mom speaks to a lawyer named Larry Walsh, a man whose smiling voice makes him sound plump and almost retired. He calls Gerry “Doll” whenever she answers. Not long after her parents’ divorce, Gerry asked her mom if she could telephone her father, and Larry Walsh had been the one to explain things.
His kind tone soothed with words like emotional welfare, best interest, undue stress. Her mom held the receiver to Gerry’s face with one hand and dabbed at her own tears with the other. He told Gerry she could call him anytime, and promised to relay any message she had directly to her father, but the arrangement confused her, and she saw no reason to call Larry Walsh to wish him a Happy Easter or Merry Christmas. But now, she can imagine fragile, staticky connections, her father’s voice, broken and distorted, but real, not the Christopher Reeves in Superman voice she hears in her head. “Can you give me his phone number?”

  Henry turns down the music, seems to weigh the question in his mind. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I won’t call him or anything. I just want to have it.”

  His lips pinch into a bud. “Well, it’s not on me. How about I bring it next time?”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “Look, if you’re going to nag me.”

  “Fine. Climb through your own damn windows.”

  Henry sighs. “Who could say no to that face?”

  A block from her house, Gerry spots the chestnut fountain of Lark’s hair. Her tartan skirt swishes across the backs of her thighs as she strolls along the sidewalk. “Can you drop me somewhere else?”

  Henry pulls the car over. “I’m already late.”

  She checks over her shoulder. If she hurries, she might make it to the back gate. “Don’t forget the number.”

  Henry raises his hand in stiff salute.

  Before she’s closed the car door, Lark calls out her name, signals for her to wait, but makes no effort to hurry her leisurely pace.

  Lark’s face is a carefully plotted painting, swipes of blush, strokes of liner and shadow, her hair banded by white lace and a bow. She wears her white T-shirt knotted at the side, cradles her books against her chest. The sun glows over her coffee-coloured arms. Everything about her is like a magazine spread, except her shoes, dark, chunky Mary Janes with thick, rubbery soles. The shoes all private school girls wear.

  Gerry stuffs her hands into her pocket, conscious of her own slovenly appearance. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had a spare before lunch. What happened to your hair? And your face?”

  “You took the bus all the way here to eat lunch?”

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t exactly eat lunch, okay?” Lark squints, her expression pained, as if Gerry’s questions have forced her answers, as if she isn’t bragging. “I can’t come after school because my dad picks me up, which totally sucks.”

  “Totally.”

  Lark raises her eyebrows, an invitation for Gerry to continue, but Gerry has run out of things to say. She knows from Ian that Lark’s dad is Indian, and this reminds her of a dare in fifth grade, sneaking into a men’s changing room at the community pool to try to see a grown man’s parts. Except she caught an Indian man bent over, looping his long, dark hair into the white tails of his turban. She felt guilty afterward, worse than if she had seen him naked. “Hey, does your dad, like, wear a turban?”

  Lark keeps her face still, unreadable. She looks down at Gerry’s high-tops. Her lips twitch in disgust, the fans of her lashes hide her eyes. “My dad drives an Alpha Romeo. What does your dad drive?” She makes a show of covering her mouth, fingernails tipped with crescent moons. “Oops, I guess you wouldn’t know. Sorry.”

  Gerry rocks her weight to her heels, scuffs her sneakers against the pavement. “Okay, well, see ya.”

  “Hey. Why are you, like, saying stuff about me?” Lark smiles as she says it.

  “What stuff?”

  “You know, like I’m a stuck-up private school skeeze.”

  The sun pricks at Gerry’s eyes. She raises her hand to shade her face. “I didn’t say that.”

  Lark head tilts, her eyes hardened to points. “You’re kinda weird, aren’t you? He thinks you’re weird too, did you know that? He said he wouldn’t even be your friend except that he feels so sorry for you.” Lark pushes her lips into a pout. “Isn’t that sad? He said you’re probably a lesbo.”

  The front of Gerry’s face feels paralyzed, a hot, rigid mask. “No he didn’t.”

  “Didn’t he? Gerry Mouse?”

  A whine in the air, a faraway siren. She tries to draw the sound closer, fill her head with it.

  Lark crosses her arms as if expecting an answer, then shrugs. “Okay. Well. Gotta go.”

  “Wait.” She reaches for Lark’s elbow, but Lark steps beyond her grasp.

  “I’m seriously going to scream if you touch me.”

  Gerry stuffs her hand back in her pocket. “Don’t you want to know about Ian?”

  Lark’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “Oh, is this something you just made up in your ugly little head?”

  Gerry takes her time. “He’s got a real girlfriend.” She waits, studies Larks eyes, hungry for a sign of weakness.

  “God, quit staring at me like that. You’re so fucking creepy.” Lark turns and starts to walk.

  Gerry strides behind her. “Did you hear me? Did you hear what I said? Her name’s Megan. She’s older and way prettier than you, and smarter too. She has her own house and they have sex there all the time.”

  As Lark quickens her pace, her hair bounces in the air. Gerry stays at her, the toes of her sneakers catching the rubber of Lark’s heels. “When your dad’s picking you up after school? That’s when they really go at it. He licks her pussy for like hours.”

  Lark covers her ears, shuffles to get ahead. Gerry shouts. “When he comes out of her bedroom, he’s all sweaty and his face is like a glazed doughnut. He can hardly keep his clothes on around her. He has this disgusting trail of hair that goes from his belly button down into his–”

  Lark swings her books, empty swipes at the air. “Stop following me! Stop following me, you fucking psycho!” Around her perfect eyes, damp mascara blooms like two fresh bruises. Gerry leaves her to stalk ahead, shoes thudding the pavement.

  WHEN IAN DOESN’T SHOW UP at Megan’s that night, Gerry knows it’s her fault. After the third phone call to his house, Megan slams down the receiver, stares at Gerry. “Where is he?”

  Gerry picks at her hands, scrapes the raw edges of her chewed-up nails. “I don’t know.” The truth brings no relief. Beside her, Andri sighs and shakes his head. Canned laughter carries in from the living room.

  Megan looks tired, dark stains under her eyes. Andri wears the same drawn expression, his shirt and sweaters rumpled as if he’s slept in them. Only Michelle, dozing in her seat, hair in pigtails, thick ankles propped on Andri’s lap, appears relaxed.

  “All this fucking trouble. Maybe you shouldn’t throw things at people.” Andri jabs his finger in the air.

  Megan ignores him, drops dishes into the sudsy sink.

  He rubs Michelle’s ankles, presses dents into her pink skin. “Access is settled anyway, that’s something.”

  “You got the door code?” Gerry pushes her way into the conversation, eager to slough off her guilt.

  While Megan’s back is turned, Andri reaches under the V-neck of his sweater, pulls out a small, tattered notebook, holds it opens below the edge of the table, to a page with three neatly printed double-digit numbers. Gerry tries to remember them as a locker combination, an imaginary lock in her hand, the dial spinning back and forth, each number marked with a tick. Andri snaps the book shut.

  “It’s nothing. All the fucking work we’ve done, the planning, the building, the testing, the sacrifices–” Megan throws a rinsed dish onto the counter, drops a clatter of wet cutlery on top of it. “What does any of it mean if we can’t execute because he decides not to show? What a fucking waste.”

  Gerry rises from her seat, takes a dishtowel from the oven handle, picks up the cutlery, and begins to dry.

  “Thank you,” Megan says quietly.

  Gerry nods and tries not to smile.

  “You overdramatize,” Andri says. “One absence.” He flaps his hand. “It means nothing. Besides.” He points at Gerry. �
�We have the understudent.”

  Gerry looks to Megan. “The what?”

  “He means understudy.” Michelle giggles, her eyes still closed.

  Megan turns to face him, the dishrag leaking over the sink’s edge. Her body blocks Gerry’s view of the table. “I know what he means, and he can forget it.”

  “Why?” Andri’s voice is loud and sharp, an interrogation.

  Gerry steps out from behind Megan. Andri leans forward in his seat, peeks around to her, a smile on his face. “You let nonsensical emotions cloud your judgment. She is by far a more believable innocent.” He clasps his hands at his chest, bats his eyes, his voice in falsetto. “Oh, I don’t know, a strange man, he gave me one hundred dollars to leave this box, he said it was a surprise.”

  Gerry laughs into the tea towel, flattered to hear herself mimicked, even though Andri’s impression makes her sound like a talking doll.

  “Blah, blah, blah, you see how perfect it is.” Andri leans back.

  Megan shakes her head. “It’s Ian or nothing.”

  Andri nods. “Okay. I understand. But consider. Just consider. You or I, of course, because of our age, our connections, if we get caught, kaput, that’s it, jail, for life, no question. And even Ian, maybe, his age is against him. But a young girl, this is much better. Even if they don’t believe her cover story, which, if we are honest, is thin. Even if they can make a connection with us, which they won’t, but if they do, conspiracy and all of it, she is still a child. Young Offenders Act says three years maximum for any crime. Any crime. As soon as she becomes adult? No record.”

  Gerry rubs at the plate in her hand, tries to catch herself in it, imagines herself behind a cloudy, Plexiglas screen, legs in shackles, the shock on her father’s face as he arrives to visit her. She wonders what three years in jail would do to her, make her meaner, harden her like the group home kids at school, or hollow her to a husk like Clem?