Our Daily Bread (13 page)

She looked at his hand on her elbow. She tried to move away but he gripped her tighter. Albert watched to see if Bill would rescue her, but Bill, although his shoulders bunched, stayed where he was. It was not what he, Albert, would have done. Albert considered going over and tearing Pataki's hands off Jayne. The idea made him snort.

“What?” said Bobby.

“Nothing.”

The urge to intervene, like his early twinge of jealousy, took him off guard. Perhaps it was because Jayne reminded him a little of his ten-year-old cousin, Toots. Something about Jayne's independence, maybe, or her skinny legs. But then, Jayne's weren't blotchy with bruises, were they? An acid wave of guilt washed over him.

“No, we are not getting back together,” Jayne said, in a voice loud enough to carry across the restaurant. “Can I have my arm back?”

“You want me to toss him out?” said Pataki. “I can do it, you know. Wouldn't bother me, if you wanted me to do you a favour like that.”

What was it about this little chick that got all the roosters so riled up? Albert mused.

She pulled away, fast and neat, leaving Pataki holding air. The motion looked as if she was drawing back to slap him, and Albert was surprised when Pataki flinched ever so slightly. Albert's admiration for Jayne grew, and again, she reminded him of Toots.

“Thanks, but there's no need,” she said.

Pataki scowled and hefted up his pants. “I don't want no trouble here, Jayne. Troublemakers got no place working here.”

“Hey, hey,” said Bobby.

“Mind your business,” said Albert.

“Oh, like you're minding yours?”

“This might be my business,” said Albert.

Pataki caught her arm and leaned in close to her ear. He wasn't much taller than she was. He whispered something and Jayne looked dangerously close to tears.

Pataki let her go and brushed off his sleeves. “Now you apologize and get back to work.”

“Sorry,” she said.

Pataki disappeared into the kitchen, and must have slammed a pot against something metal, for a loud bang made them all jump. Keith remained with his gaze fixed out the window, concentrating on the street as if there was a parade going by. Carol put a grilled cheese, fries and a cola down in front of him, but he ignored her.

It was all working out pretty well. If Albert played his cards right, if he asked her out now, pissed as she was, he'd bet money she'd say yes.

Jayne looked blankly around her as though wondering how to get out of the place. Albert tried to catch her eye, and she looked at him, but he wasn't altogether sure she saw him. He winked at her, subtly, a thing just between the two of them. Letting her know he was here for her. After all, didn't he understand better than most what it was to have people look down on you? Make comments about you? He could be good for this girl.

Jayne blinked twice and walked over to Bill. She put her hand on his shoulder and a surge of electricity ran down Albert's arms, so strong his hands jerked from where they rested on his thighs.

“I can't make it for dinner tonight,” she said in a steady voice. “Would another night be possible?” She said it loud enough to be heard throughout the room.

The air around Albert got colder. This happened sometimes, when he got angry. It was as if his body temperature spiked so fast that in comparison the air felt cold, as if he ran a fever of anger. He couldn't figure out just who he was angriest at: himself, for missing his opportunity, or Bill, for taking his. Or maybe it was Jayne—all those points she'd racked up for dignity and pride, she was willing to throw away on Bill Corkum. Stupid little slut. And he'd fantasized she'd be the one to . . . to what? Fuck that. Fuck her. And maybe he would one day. A mercy fuck.

“What about Friday?” said Bill, also loudly, and grinning.

Albert knew if Bill so much as glanced in his direction he was going to jump up out of this booth and slam his rival's bony chin into the counter. He hoped Bill would look at him, hoped he would hold his winner's smirk long enough to let Albert smear it off in blood and bits of tooth and bone.

“Lovely. What time?” said Jayne.

“I'll swing by and pick you up after I finish up work, okay?” he said.

“Hey! You! I want my cheque,” Albert called.

Startled, Jayne turned to him. “But you haven't touched your pie.”

“It's fucking crap. Give me my bill or I'm leaving anyway.”

“Fine, take it.” She pulled the little yellow pad from her pocket, ripped off the bill, came to him and slapped it down on the table. It was for eight-fifty. He threw down eight dollars.

“Pay at the register,” she said, and he ignored her.

He stood and strode to the door without even glancing at Bill. Bobby said something he didn't catch and then laughed, following him.

“You're short!” called Jayne.

“So fucking sue me,” he called back.

“What's your problem? Albert?
Albert!
”

Outside he walked down the street without stopping to see if Bobby followed. The air carried a trace of the fried meat and oil from Gus's kitchen, and under it the tang of springtime dog shit and wet newspapers. The sound of reggae music wafted from Danny's Records and he glanced in. A pretty girl stood flipping through the bins of CD's and collector vinyl. He hated her on sight, with her perfect cheerleader's nose and pert ass. And then there Bobby was, trotting beside him.

“Wow, what are you so pissed at?”

“I fucking hate that place. No class. I don't know why you wanted to go there. I'm never fucking going there again. All that bullshit. Who needs it?” A pain shot up from his instep and he'd taken another step, endured another flash of pain, before he realized he had a stone in his boot. He sat down on the curb, next to the clogged-up leaves in the drain, the cigarette butts and the dust, and pulled his boot off while Bobby watched him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Albert held the boot upside down and a small, sharp stone fell into his palm. “How does that fucking happen?” he yelled. “I mean, how does it get the fuck in there?” He threw it at a passing car and was only minimally satisfied with the
ting
it made when it hit the side. It would have pleased him more if the driver had stopped. A stone in his shoe was just like goddamn life, he thought. You didn't put it there and you didn't want it and you couldn't see it, and then
wham!
it cut into your instep and made you bleed.

“You okay?” said Bobby.

“I'm a fucking carnival,” said Albert, and in that moment all he was left with was a huge gaping pit of loneliness, just a black bottomless space on the ground around him in every direction. He would never admit it to anyone, and maybe he didn't want to admit it even to himself, but for a while now, and certainly for a few minutes there Albert had wondered about the future in a way he hadn't before. Permitted himself to think in terms of possibilities. He hadn't seen it coming, because he'd never really had a crush on anyone before, not in all the years of his being alive. He'd banged a good number of girls. He'd even seen a few for a couple of months at a time, mountain slags, mostly, and one or two too stupid to figure out they were nothing more than booty calls, but for some reason that skinny little bitch of a waitress had been different. Why? Because she'd given him a couple of free coffees? Because she didn't look at him the same way other people did? Because she'd had the good sense to drop that loser, Keith Keyes? Well, who was the loser now, huh? Who was the fucking loser now? He was a carnival all right, a fucking freak show.

Albert pulled his boot back on and stood on the sidewalk, tired down to his bones. He wanted to go back to the cabin and get good and drunk and sleep for about a hundred years. But he knew as soon as he got back there he'd feel like a trapped wolf. He was wiped out and restless all at once. He needed something to do, to plan, a project to get his mind off this self-indulgent shit. He started walking, kicking at stray stones on the sidewalk, crushing a can under his heel with one satisfying crunch. Then he stopped, the tips of his fingers tingling for something to do, for something to take the edge off.

“You know what, son?” he said to Bobby. “I think you might be ready. I think you might finally be ready to step into the game.” And, his decision being made, he felt better.

A wide, slow moving line of thunderstorms
battered Gideon all morning and afternoon. Driving home took Tom longer than usual since two of the roads were blocked with downed trees. At the outskirts of town a power line danced across the street, spitting sparks like a furious cobra and the traffic lights were out. The temperature dropped and for May it was chilly, with a pewter sky and still-roiling clouds. Tom pulled into the driveway. A stray burst of sunlight flashed from between the dark clouds, briefly blinding him. Everything smelled of electricity. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was still high and the trees whipped and creaked. The sickly maple had succumbed at last. It lay on its side across the lawn, but it looked as though two branches had broken off first. One had hit the fence on the side of the house and broken through the top rail. Another lay near the garage. It was a big limb, a good six feet or more, far enough from the mother tree to make Tom wonder how the hell it had got there. Patty's car was visible through the windows in the garage and he thanked god she'd had the foresight not to take it out on one of her rambles today. A gust came up out of nowhere and a metal watering can bounced and rattled across the walk. He looked up. The sky had that ominous tinge of green you never wanted to see. The weather report on the radio had said the worst of it was over, but Tom wasn't so sure. Rascal barked from inside the house. The door opened and Ivy stepped out.

“Hey, Munchkin. What are you doing home?”

She wore a blue jumper and a white turtleneck. She was barefoot and, although her feet were clean, her shins showed spatters of dark muck. Her hair was pulled back into a messy braid she must have done herself.

“Get back inside. Go on,” he said, his voice tight with worry he hoped didn't sound like irritation. She was all skinny arms and legs, fragile elbows and knees. He gently pushed her inside and closed the door against the suck of wind. “So, what are you doing home? Are you sick, sweetpea? The school close because of the storm?” He couldn't believe the school would send the kids home in this weather.

The expression on Ivy's face puzzled him. She looked very serious, almost angry, and he wondered for a moment if she and Patty had had an argument. But there was something else. There was worry in the way her forehead puckered and in the narrowing of her dark eyes. Tom felt a jolt, as though some great hand shook him. “You okay, sweetie? Everything all right?”

“Daddy . . .” she said in a whisper, as though she were afraid to make any sound at all, afraid of what the merest ripple in the air would do. “Mommy . . .”

“What about Mommy? Is she okay? Ivy, tell me!”

“She's not here.”

“Not here? Where is she?”

“Her things aren't here either.”

An avalanche of understanding rolled over him, a frigid tumbling of his senses, so that for several seconds he didn't know whether he was standing or had fallen, didn't know where up was, or down. Without thinking, he scooped Ivy up in his arms and she put her hands over her head as he narrowly missed whacking her skull on the doorjamb. “Patty! Patty!” He raced, holding her in his arms as though each room was on fire, from one room to the other, and was aware of very little other than the emptiness of each space. The dog slinked behind the couch. In the kitchen, he stopped. Bobby sat at the kitchen table, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich on a plate in front of him. His son stared at the plate, at the greasy, congealing sandwich, not looking at Tom. And then Tom moved on, bellowing now, calling for her, room by room . . .

Everywhere he looked were discarded things—shoes and rubber boots and backpacks, magazines, a Barbie doll, a toy truck, a glass with half an inch of crystallizing red wine staining the sides. Everything looked left behind, forgotten, cast away.

“Daddy, you're hurting me,” said Ivy, softly, so softly it was the only thing that got through to him.

“I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry.” He kissed her head and put her down and then he ran upstairs and roared into the bedroom he had shared with his wife, into the room where on the anniversary of their beginning he had made her writhe and moan on the bed, calling out his name. He tore open the closet door. His clothes were pushed to one side. And on her side: empty hangers, skeletons where the flesh of cloth had been. Scraps left behind. A blue lace scarf he'd given her as a birthday present ten years ago. A yellow sandal. A T-shirt. He quickly scanned the room. Drawers half closed. A pair of corduroy pants abandoned. Detritus. Flotsam. He fell to his knees and reached to the back of the closet, groping blindly past his own clumsy enormous shoes and her empty shoeboxes, a plastic package of sanitary napkins, a pile of tattered, swollen paperbacks Patty read in the bath, two ties, fallen and forgotten. Then his fingers found the jewellery box with the little dancer inside, the very one she'd put on the stool in front of her the day he'd first seen her, there to collect coins in return for her song. The one they used as a sort of sentimental savings account. Ten dollars here, thirty there. It grew over the years. They'd been saving for something special, or so he thought. He had used the talisman of the box, place of his first offering to her, as their promise to the future.

He held the box in his hands and dared not open it. Knew by the weight what was not there. By the feather-light, bird-has-flown weight of it, he knew what he would find. Not find. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to crush the box. He could do it, too. Mash the thing with his bare hands to a crumple of cardboard and metal winding gears. He lifted the lid and was startled, and felt a fool, when the little dancer began to twirl to the tinkle-y strains of Chopin. Nothing. A bobby pin. A lone cufflink, brass with an enamel thistle. Furry bits of ancient dust. Less than nothing. He closed the lid, gently, and put the box back into the shadowed recesses of the closet.

He sat on the unmade bed, in the imprint her body had made. He would go downstairs. He would find out what Bobby knew. And then he started, for it came to him that he had noticed something, registered it down in the little lizard part of his brain. Patty's car in the garage. That tree limb. Pushed up against the garage. Knowledge of what that meant stood briefly outlined in his mind and then panicked, tried to slip back into the shadows of his frantic thoughts. But he'd seen it now. Could not ignore it. He knew Patty had not walked away alone, knew that as surely as if he'd been there to see her leave himself. Someone had come with a car of their own. A tree limb blocked their path. Someone had moved that tree limb from where it had most likely fallen across the road. Moved it out of the way, against the side of the garage, so the car could be driven away. It was too big for her to lift herself. Someone had helped her. He imagined a Paul Bunyan who could toss aside a tree limb as if flicking away a used match. No obstacle too large to stand in his way. Someone who hadn't even come up to the house, probably, but had the power to draw her to him. Might it have been a woman, a friend who had taken one end while she took the other, both of them struggling with the weight and bulk? He considered. It was no woman.

Tom tried to think back over the past few days, the past few weeks; he re-ran every argument, every harsh word that had flown through the house like glass shards in a windstorm. Found no clue to give him purchase. Found every clue to confirm she was leaving him, but nothing told him with whom. Faces flashed in his mind's eye. Men he knew well, men he knew hardly at all, friends and acquaintances, men at the garage, at the market, in the stores. The world seemed filled with men capable of any sort of deceit. He recalled the way conversations cut off when he entered certain places: the loading docks of certain stores, his own company's lunch room. The room spun. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head between his knees, afraid he was about to pass out.

“Daddy?” Ivy and Bobby stood in the doorway. Tom was ashamed then, for he had forgotten he had children. Bobby kept his eyes on the floor, as though he was guilty of something. Was he? Did he know something? Ivy held her brother's hand and it was evidence of Bobby's anxiety that he let her.

Tom opened his arms wide. “Come here,” he said. Ivy hesitated, and then ran for him, throwing herself into his arms. Sobbing. He held her on his knee and patted her, feeling her skull, so easily cupped in his hand. Instinct made him want to hold her tightly, but he was afraid of crushing her. Bobby hung in the doorway, his hands in his pockets now.

“Son . . .” The boy looked at a spot somewhere near Tom's face. “ . . . come here.”

Bobby slouched over to the bed and sat at the end, one leg hooked up under his skinny behind.

After a while Ivy's crying turned to hiccups. She held onto the Boy Scout whistle she wore around her neck. A lot of good that had done, thought Tom. He produced a tissue from his pocket and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“What happened?” Tom said. “Bobby, was Mom gone when you got up this morning?”

Bobby shook his head.

“She was here, then?”

Ivy nodded. That was good. He'd had visions of them waking up to an empty house. “Okay. Okay. Did anything happen this morning? I mean anything at all?” He would have given anything to have someone else to ask.

“There was a storm.” Ivy twisted the tissue in her hand.

“I know. It's all right, baby. Everything's fine. Did Mommy say anything to you? Did she leave a note? Did she say where she was going? To the store, maybe? Or when she'd be back?”

Ivy shook her head. Tom willed himself to breathe in to the count of five, breathe out to the count of five. “Tell me what happened.”

“You and Mommy had a fight last night.”

“You're always fighting,” said Bobby.

“I know, but that happens sometimes, people fight. It doesn't mean anything. Tell me about this morning.”

Ivy raised her eyes to her father's and screwed up the side of her mouth, one eyebrow raised. It was a look Tom knew well, older than her years, disapproving. “She said sometimes she thought I was the mother around here, because I take such good care of you and Bobby.”

“You're just a kid,” said Bobby.

“All right,” said Tom.

“I knew something was up,” said Bobby.

“What do you mean?”

“She was funny. I don't know. Antsy.” Bobby shrugged.

“What does that mean?” It was hard not to raise his voice, not to shake his son.

“Like she wanted us gone.”

“Anyway,” said Ivy, dragging the word like it was made up of three distinct syllables. “It was Bobby's idea.”

“What was?”

“We left for school, but we didn't go to school.”

“You didn't.”

“I just figured, all right?” Bobby said.

“What? For God sake, Bobby, what did you figure?”

Bobby rose and faced his father. “I figured out what was going on, all right?”

Ivy pressed up against her father and his grip tightened around her.

“Tell me. Now.”

“We waited around back of the house.”

They stood out in the wind and the mud and the rain; Tom saw them as clearly as if he'd been there himself, stood out in the thunder and the flash in the strangely dark morning, the rain running into their hair, spattering mud against Ivy's white socks, Bobby's nose running; him wiping it off on his sleeve. Watching their mother. Knowing she was leaving. Leaning up against the weathered wood, trying to stay out of the wind. Had they done it before? “What were you waiting for?”

Ivy sighed heavily, her breath huffing out as though she were walking down a flight of stairs. “Until the car came and Mommy left.”

“Who was in the car, Bobby?” And he wanted to ask,
Why didn't you stop her?

Ivy squirmed off his knee. “Is she coming back?”

“Of course she is,” said Tom, then he thought better of it. What good would it do, to lie to them now, to show them no one could be trusted, no one at all. “I hope so. Bobby, who was in the car?”

“I don't know.” Bobby turned, then took a step toward the door.

Tom reached for his arm and was very careful not to hold him too tightly. He concentrated on this effort, for his fingers worked of their own free will and if they gained control he knew Bobby's arm could snap. “Look, I know somebody moved that broken branch. She couldn't have done it alone. It was somebody you knew, wasn't it? Was it a man?” He understood Bobby was frightened and defiant and nearly as full of fury as he was. Tom wanted to stop. “Bobby, this isn't a game. If you know who the man is, you have to tell me. Now. Listen to me. This is very important. I'm worried about your mother.”

“Right.” He nodded, but looked unconvinced.

“You have to tell me. You know that. Either you tell or Ivy will. You be the one. Don't make her do it. Who was in the car?” He released Bobby's arm.

“Some guy. I don't know.” Bobby hugged himself as though cold.

The centre of Tom's chest constricted, tightened, easy enough to explain; and then a small pop, as though some muscle, some tendon, something necessary for holding his insides in their proper place, stretched beyond its limit. Whatever it was gave way softly, almost gently, and he felt like he was bleeding inside, his breath turning to blood in a broken vessel, leaking away down into his boots. It occurred to him he might very well die of love.

“Are you okay, Daddy?” Ivy's voice was far off somewhere.

“Yes, baby.” What would they do, now? What would they do if she came back? What would happen to Ivy and Bobby in a town like this, with a mother who had run off with another man? But what would they do if she never came back? They would be the abandoned ones, the ones rejected, left behind, tainted forever. They would look at Ivy and Bobby for signs of badness, signs of cursed blood showing through. They would be tainted either way, with her return or her rejection. If he didn't love her so much, oh, how he could hate her.