Flight (6 page)

He's curled in a ball, his hands cupped and jammed between his thighs like a little boy. She'd often found him beautiful this way.

She moves toward him. Stops near the bed. It's hard to believe the things he's done. Every now and again she'll wake and think it's all been a dream and, for a moment, will feel such relief. But then the truth will settle over her like snow, and she'll wish for the years back. To start again.

She pulls the sheets over him before sliding in herself. Rests her head on her right palm. Stares at the still ceiling fan.
And what's he capable
of, Emily?
Jackie had asked earlier.
You've never really said.
For a moment, during that conversation, she thought she might tell her friend about the last time she took the kids. How Kent, after realizing she'd gone, had shown up at her parents' place. How he stood in her father's kitchen and promised never to lay a finger on her again, how he shook her dad's hand, and kissed her mother on both cheeks, and how later, as they leaned against the rail of the ferry waving goodbye to her parents, he'd bent down and whispered in her ear, his breath melting her eardrum. “If you ever take my kids away again, I'll kill you.” Her heart had almost stopped. Then the boat started to drift away from the dock, and her mom and dad started walking back to their car.

She turns over onto her side.

And what's he capable of, Emily? You've never really said.

Before slipping into sleep, she imagines a new answer to Jackie's question.
Killing me. That's what.

TUESDAY

SHE WAKES TO THE SOUND OF WIND and rain against the window. Although her eyes are encrusted with sleep, she doesn't feel rested. Every joint and ligament aches. She's running a fever, she thinks. It hurts to swallow. The pounding inside her skull is relentless.

The only remnants of Kent are wrinkled sheets and dried blood on his pillow. All last night he had slept with his arm around her and his face pressed between her shoulder blades, his scalding breath burning a hole in her back. Half the night she had to put up with his mumbling, his jerking limbs. Twice his knee had come up and hit hard against the back of her legs. Another time, the arm draped over her had smacked against her forehead. She'd rammed her bum against him then in frustration.

No parting kiss again this morning, she realizes. It occurs to her too, that, for the first time in ages, she's slept through his engine revving and horn blasts.

She reaches across Kent's side of the bed and twists the clock around. 7:30. How could she have slept through the alarm as loud as it is? She turns over on her back, willing the energy to get up. She kicks off the sheets, and sits on the edge of the bed. They'll have to walk tightly together this morning, she thinks, seeing as there's only one umbrella. Jeremy will love that.

She slips her feet into her slippers and stands up, then waits for the dizziness to pass.

The clouds outside her bedroom window are a fat purplish grey and so burdened with moisture they look as if they might fall from the sky and wash away the whole town. She welcomes the thought.

Is that coffee she smells? Probably left over from what Kent had brewed.

Despite her fever, she's shivering. Definitely a cold, she thinks. As if she doesn't have enough to worry about. On a hook behind her closet door, she grabs her robe and puts it on, tying the knot tightly around her waist. Walks to the bedroom door and pushes it open.

Out in the hall she thinks she smells bacon. Perhaps Kent had wanted something different from baloney for a change.

In the bathroom, she resists the urge to look in the mirror on her way to the toilet. She sits slowly. The porcelain is cold against her backside. Elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands.

Although she's finished, she stays sitting, wishing she could skip this day and move on to Wednesday. Better yet, to Friday. Get it over with. She imagines her cushioned Air Canada seat, its back reclined, and a book in her lap. Jeremy on her right; Lynette, her left. Their table trays down with glasses of Coke sitting on top, the light through the plane's windows reflecting in the ice cubes.

She grips the edges of the toilet bowl, like someone arthritic, and gets to her feet. She can't stop herself from looking in the mirror as she lathers her hands with soap. It wasn't so long ago, she thinks, that she saw herself as pretty. Not someone who could turn heads or anything, but attractive all the same. She could do a lot worse than her tiny nose with the curved tip, and the wide cheekbones, the slightly crooked teeth, and the far-set eyes. Even the two noticeable veins converging in the middle of her forehead, and her largish ears have never really bothered her.

There's nothing desirable about her now, she thinks, rinsing the soap from her hands. Dark bags under tired eyes, and pasty skin that used to be golden. Sunken cheeks too.

She dries her hands and makes her way to the kitchen. There's the sound of utensils banging against bowls and plates now, and scattering feet. Jeremy, she notices, is not in his bed when she opens his door. Nor is Lynette. “What are you two up to in there?” she says, quickening her pace.

She isn't prepared for what she sees when she emerges from the hall: Kent's at the stove, a spatula in his hand and his back to her; Jeremy's beside him, standing on a stool and stirring what she thinks are eggs. The shuffling of feet, she realizes, is Lynette, busy setting the breakfast table.

“What's all this?”

Lynette pulls out a chair. “Sit here, Mommy.”

“You're not at work.”

Kent turns to her. “The ship will stay afloat a few minutes without me.”

“Mommy,
sit
,” Lynette says again.

She goes over and sits down.

“I'm making scrambled eggs,” Jeremy says.

“Wow.”

Lynette pours her some orange juice.

“Careful not to spill, baby,” Emily says.

“I won't.”

“There's fresh coffee,” Kent says.

“Juice is fine.”

Kent scoops a pancake out of the frying pan and lays it on top of an already piled plate. “I'm ready for the eggs.”

Jeremy lifts the bowl and pours.

“You want to make them?” Kent says.

“Can I?”

“Sure can. Mind not to burn them.”

“Okay.”

He comes over. Bends down and kisses her on the lips. “Good morning.” The bandages she'd put on his cut last night are still there.

“How is it?” she says.

“Needs stitches.”

“You don't say.”

“I'll stop at the clinic on my way to work.”

He pulls out a chair and sits beside her.

Lynette fills his glass too.

“Some waitress, you are,” Kent says.

“Daddy fell getting out of the truck.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Emily says. She sips her juice, glancing at him over the lip of the glass. They're silent for a while after she puts it down. Finally, she says, “You seem happy.”

“Why shouldn't I be?”

“After last night.”

“The bruises'll heal. So will their tempers.” He takes a sip of his own juice. “If not yesterday, the layoffs would have happened eventually. It's the same all over the island. Why do you think so many are off in Alberta?” He turns to Jeremy. “How are those eggs?”

“Almost done.”

He looks back at her. “It was a losing battle. I did my best.” He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Thanks for taking care of me.”

She tries to remember the last time he'd thanked her. Or made her breakfast. Her whole life has been about pleasing
him
, she realizes. Dinner on the table when he walks in the door, his clothes ironed and folded, her parted legs whenever he's in the mood. It's all been for him. Everything.
Son of a bitch
. “You're welcome.”

“They're ready,” Jeremy says. He scoops them onto a plate and brings them over, a big smile on his face.

“Wow, honey, they look wonderful,” Emily says. “Sit down now, sweetie,” she says to Lynette who's in the process of transforming the last of the napkins into a swan.

Everyone, with the exception of Emily, grabs at buttered toast, pancakes and bacon.

In the middle of plopping eggs on his plate, Kent says, “Aren't you hungry?”

“I'm sorry. You all went to so much trouble.”

“What's wrong?” Kent returns the spoon to the scrambled eggs.

“Bit of the flu, I think.”

He reaches out and feels her forehead. “A bit! You're burning up.”

She leans back.

“No work for you today.”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because it's inventory, and Terry trusts no one else but me to do it.”

“Let him do it himself.”

“He's got the store to run.”

“I'll call him and tell him you're sick – ”

“No – don't. Look, I'll get some Tylenol Cold and Flu and some Halls at work. If I'm still feeling bad after that, then I'll come home.”

Kent stares at her for a minute. “More than I'd do for ten dollars an hour.”

She takes a sip of her juice. Puts the glass back down.

“It's not like you need the money.”

She thinks of the old Adidas sock stuffed with bills underneath the floor panel in the basement. “It gets me out.”

Kent puts a piece of bacon in his mouth. Chews. “You can go out whenever you want.”

She looks down at her hands. “Perhaps I like making my own money.”

He laughs despite his mouth being full. “Get a paper route. Outside all you want then, and more money at the end of the week too.”

She raises her glass again. Gulps till it's gone.

“More, Mom?” Lynette asks.

She shakes her head.

His stare stays on her for a long time before he goes back to his food. “You should try and eat something.”

Trapped within the sounds of clicking jaws, slurping, fork prongs scraping along plates, and Lynette's soft humming accompanying her own chews, Emily manages to swallow a few bites of pancake and egg – her stomach clenching in protest. Jeremy is there to eat what she can't, dumping what's on her plate onto his own like a starved orphan.

“I'll drive you this morning,” Kent says, after having ordered the children to their rooms to get ready for school.

“You should get to work. We can walk.”

“In the rain?”

“It does me good.”

“You want to catch pneumonia too?”

She doesn't answer.

“I'm driving you and that's that.”

2

EVEN WITH THE WIPERS ON TOP SPEED it's still hard to see straight ahead. He's got the heat on blast to stop the windshield from steaming up. She thinks she'll suffocate.

The radio's on low – Willie Nelson's, “Mammas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.”

Jeremy and Lynette are in the back seat, both staring out their windows.

“The town's going to flood,” Jeremy says.

“Will it, Mommy?” Lynette asks.

Emily turns around to face her daughter. “No, sweetheart. It'll stop before too long.”

“Bet we all drown,” Jeremy says.

“Mom!”

“Ignore him, baby, he's just teasing.”

Kent reaches across the seat and takes Emily's hand. “And you wanted to walk in this.”

He puts the truck in park just outside the main doors of the school. A few other vehicles are parked too, wipers and hazard lights going. Little children – raincoats of green and yellow and orange – hop out and start running, water splashing around their rubbers with each step. The girls are screaming, the boys laughing.

Emily makes to open her door, but Kent stops her by squeezing her hand. “I'll take them,” he says.

She leans over the seat and kisses Lynette. Jeremy doesn't want one, but Kent makes him. She reaches down and grabs the umbrella between her feet, handing it to her husband.

“On the count of three,” Kent says, popping the umbrella open.

“That's bad luck,” Jeremy says.

Lynette's worried now that they'll all be struck by lightning.

On three, Kent flings open the door like it's made of paper, and moves to open the back one. He swoops Lynette into his arms, then waits for Jeremy to hop out and join them. He sprints to the entrance, Jeremy running at his thigh, Lynette pressed against his torso and jiggling like a rag doll. They're getting soaked despite the umbrella over them. It almost seems to be raining from the ground up. They're all laughing.

Just inside the glass doors, she watches him put Lynette down and kiss her, then offer Jeremy his hand to shake. Jeremy puts his whole shoulder into it.

How long before Lynette and Jeremy stop hating her for taking them away, she wonders? Or will they ever? She imagines them grown and not answering her phone calls. Holidays spent alone. Dusty pictures in an old photo album.

Mavis Callback, the principal, is standing there directing waterlogged children to their respective lockers and homerooms. Something Kent says makes her throw her head back in laughter and then rest a hand on his shoulder. He laughs too, covering the older woman's hand with one of his own.

Still the charmer, Emily thinks. The boyish smile and mischievous wink. His way of standing right in front of you, his body slightly forward at the waist, his thumb and forefinger clasped around his chin, his eyes right on you as if nothing in the world were more important than your words. Who else but him to run the union? Who else but him to sway the people? Could turn a mother against her own son, he could. A father against his daughter. The ultimate actor, Kent is. Two selves. The one he presents to the world, and the one he is at home.

The sound of him opening the driver's door brings her back. His trousers are soaked. “Jeremy might be right,” he says, throwing the umbrella in the back seat, “perhaps we
will
all drown.” He runs a hand through his damp hair. Turns the ignition and pumps the gas. “You're sure you want to go into work?”