Roost (16 page)

I leave Dad’s at four
, exhausted, and take a quick shower at home before leaving again to pick up the kids. Both are drizzly.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask Wes.

He complains of a headache. Rests his head in his hands and scowls from the back seat of the car.

“How about you, Joan, how was your day?”

“Bum-stick.”

“Right. Listen, kids. Grandpa is coming to stay with us for a while.”

“Like a sleepover?”

“Yeah, like a sleepover. He has to have some work done on his house so he’s going to live with us until it’s finished.”

“He can have my room!” Wes offers, leaning forward in his car seat.

“What’s in your mouth, Joan?” I ask, looking in the rear-view mirror. “That’s very good of you to offer, Wes, but Grandpa’s going to take Joan’s room. It’s closer to the bathroom.”

Wes looks puzzled.

“Old people have to use the bathroom a lot.”

“When’s he coming?”

“Tonight,” I say. A truck pulls in front of me with no warning and I slam on my brakes. “Asshole!”

“You just said asshole,” Wes informs me.

“Yes, Wes, I did. And sometimes people are assholes.”

“Ms. Patty is an asshole,” Wes says.

“Wesley!”

“Well, she is! She told me I budded in line but I was really there first.”

“Don’t call your teacher an asshole, okay? Joan,
what
are you chewing on?”

Wes tells me, “She found a granola bar by her cubby. It wasn’t hers.”

I shake my head. “Joan …”

“You an asshole.”

I drive in stunned silence the rest of the way. Once home, I serve my kids microwave pizza and call Glen.

“I need a hand,” I say.

“Can’t do it, Claudia. Just sold two paintings and the gallery wants to give me my own show.”

“But I’m telling you, I
really
need your help. Dad is coming over and I need help moving the double bed out of the basement and then I need someone to watch the kids while I check back on the junk people.”

“The junk people?”

“My dad is a hoarder, Glen.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the phone. Then he asks, “What do you mean, a hoarder? You mean he collects things?”

“Like the
TV
show, Glen. The house is a write-off. He has to stay with me.”

He sighs.

“Please, Glen. After this I won’t ask you anymore. Just help me get the bed.”

“I will help you move the bed, but Claudia, you can’t just call whenever you need something and expect that I can do
it. I mean I try to help you out when you need help but we’re not … you know …”

“Married? Yes, Glen, we never were. That’s not the point. The point is the kids have two parents and right now they need you.”

“No, Claudia, that is the point. It’s not the kids that need me. It’s
you
who needs me, but you can’t keep making last-minute demands and just expect me to drop everything at the snap of your fingers.”

“Are you going to help me move the bed?”

He sighs again. “I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

“And the kids?” He does not reply. “Never mind about the kids. Just help me get the damn bed.”

I hang up the phone.

“Okay guys. Daddy’s coming over to help me set up Grandpa’s bed and then we’re going over to Grandpa’s house for a minute.”

“But I’m tired,” Wes complains. “I want to stay home.”

“I’ll buy you ice cream,” I bribe.

“Me too?”

“Yes, Joan. You too.”

When Glen arrives, we share few words beyond those associated with moving the bed.

“I can stay and watch the kids for a bit,” he offers as I give the mattress a final shove against the wall.

“No, thank you,” I say coldly. I close Joan’s closet door and throw her stuffies into a round tub.

“Claudia. Don’t be difficult.”

“Don’t be difficult?” My neck tenses and I look into his eyes. Eyes that are becoming less familiar. He wipes his hands on his pants, pants I’ve never seen before. I’m suddenly aware of the length of our separation. The accumulation of an entire
wardrobe. Underwear I didn’t buy, pants with pockets I’ve never emptied before throwing them in the wash. “You don’t know what difficult is.”

I leave him in Joan’s room.

“Come on, kids!” I say in a fake voice.

“Are we going for ice cream now?”

“We are, Wes. Put your coat on.”

“Claudia?” Glen says, following us to the door.

“After you,” I reply. He obeys, Wes follows him, and then Joan, wearing snow boots. It is twelve degrees outside.

When I pull into my dad’s, it is late and approaching bedtime. I tell the kids to wait in the car. They obey and continue licking their soft serve. Lenny and his partner have made progress.

“Hello,” he says. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”

“Sorry it took me a while.”

“No problem,” he says, pulling off his gloves. “I spoke with your brother on the phone a few times so we’re all good. It’s just all the stuff against that wall I need help with.” He gestures to an obscene pile. I cover my nose. “What of it do you want to keep?”

I examine the pile closer. Cards from Mom’s birthday. An old cross-stitch. The afghan we slept under, on the couch, when we were sick. I take an end of the afghan and tug it slightly. It causes an unopened box to tumble from the top.

“None of it,” I reply. “I don’t want to keep any of it.”

“Not even that nice blanket?”

When I make a second attempt to free the afghan, I see that it’s covered in oily blotches.

“Not even that,” I reply.

“I’ll give you a minute. I’m just going to go out to the truck and have my supper.” I follow him out to check on the
kids. Joan has ice cream in her hair. I do my best to get it out with a napkin.

“Can we go in?” Wes asks.

“Nope. Grandpa isn’t home, remember?”

“What does J-U-N-K spell?”

“It spells junk.”

Lenny emerges from the truck with his partner. He finishes a banana and tosses the peel in the back.

“I’ll be right back, okay, Wes? Joan?”

I follow Lenny into the kitchen. “Do you want the contents of the fridge gone?”

He opens the door so that I can take a good look inside, but I say “Yes” after only a glance.

“Freezer too?”

I open the freezer. There are casseroles stacked on top of each other. I presume they’ve been there since Mom’s funeral. Recipe cards with instructions are illegible under frost-covered bags. The ice smells old. The whole appliance hums.

“Clear it out,” I instruct.

Lenny offers me a comforting smile. “Makes it easy,” he says.

“Are you okay if I leave?”

“Oh yes,” he assures me. “Your brother said he’d be back around nine.”

I thank him and navigate my way to the front door. I flip through some unopened mail bundled in the entryway.

“Are you still there?” Lenny calls from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I yell back.

“I have something for you!”

“What is it?”

He rounds the corner and hands me a dog. It looks like an Ewok. A mix of pug and Shih Tzu.

“Found him in the bathroom,” he says. He pats it lovingly on the head. I stare at Lenny, speechless.

“Good night,” he says. “If it helps, he just went to the bathroom.”

“That doesn’t help,” I reply.

As I’m carrying the dog to my car, cradled in my arm, my father’s Taurus pulls up to the curb. I notice Joan is asleep as I pass the back seat. My dad is slow to get out of his vehicle. I want to hit him and hug him. Shake him violently, rock him like a baby.

“Dad,” I whisper, as he comes up the walk. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He reaches out and pets the dog. “I see you found Paul.”

“Paul? Dad there is dog shit all through the house! What were you thinking?”

“Not in the bedroom,” he argues. “Paul was never allowed in the bedroom.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You should have said something earlier. You should have asked for help.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He puts his hands up. They tremble.

Wes lets himself out of the car. “A puppy!” he cries.

“Back in the car, Wes.”

“But I want to see the puppy!” He makes fists with his hands and jumps.

“BACK in the car,” I repeat sternly.

Wes starts to whine.

“I set up a bed for you,” I tell my father.

“I’ll be fine,” he argues, pointing to the house.

“No, you will not be fine. Nothing about this situation is fine. You can’t go back in there. You can’t sleep there.”

“Claudia, I really am fine.”

“Just come to my place. At least until it’s all cleared out.” A next-door neighbour peers through her front window blinds. At the truck. The bits of debris littering the driveway. Seconds later her husband joins her. Dad takes note.

He caves. “Fine. Let me just get a few things.”

“I’ll wait here,” I say.

The temperature drops and wind comes out of nowhere. I shiver. Paul licks my neck. I strain so he doesn’t get my lips. My dad emerges several minutes later empty-handed. I get into the car and place the dog on the front passenger seat next to me. Does it have fleas? My father finally gets in his car and sits behind the wheel.

“I didn’t know Grandpa got a dog!” Wes exclaims.

“Neither did I, Wes.” I don’t even know if Grandpa knows he got a dog. I think about Glen with George, Dad with Paul. Am I also supposed to get a pet? Am I allowed to get a dog?

My convoy and I return home close to 9:00 p.m. I carry Joan in first. Accidentally take her to her room before remembering her bed is now in Wes’s room. I am sweating by the time I plunk her down. I take off her snow boots and go back out for Wes, passing my dad on the way. I wonder if he will be offended if I ask him to shower.

“So do you have bugs on you? Right now?”

“No,” my father replies sternly.

“Can the dog sleep in my room?” Wes asks hopefully. Paul barks as if in agreement.

“No way. Paul is sleeping outside.”

As soon as we’re in the house, I tell Wes to put on his pajamas, and Paul starts barking.

“Shut up, Paul!”

Dad sits down at the kitchen table. I put Wes to bed, then I join my father.

“Are you hungry? Can I make you anything to eat?”

“No, Allison-Jean made a big roast beef dinner.”

“How was Dan?”

“We haven’t spoken,” he says.

“He’s just upset. He’ll come around.”

I observe my father in search of understanding. His garment of shame is slight; a mere pocket square in a jacket. It pisses me off. I want him to wear it like a Hazmat suit.

“I don’t see why this is such a big deal,” he says. “My stuff has nothing to do with you or Dan or anyone else.”

“YOU HAD SHIT ON THE FLOOR,” I say slowly and loudly. “I couldn’t step foot in my bedroom because it was filled to the top with NOTHING.”

“That hasn’t been your bedroom for nearly twenty years!”

“You had to have an exterminator!”

“I didn’t need one!”

“You got bedbugs!

“They weren’t bedbugs!” he says, slamming his fist on the table. The movement sets one of Joan’s mechanical hamsters into motion. Like a lemming, it wheels itself right off the table. Paul runs in the room and sniffs it on the floor. “Dr. Harvey said it was just a skin infection.”

“Yeah, well no wonder you got a skin infection. The junk people are coming back tomorrow. I think you should be there.” I get up from the table. “I think you should go to bed now.”

I get up early the next morning
and drive to Walmart to buy my dad a few things. Large underwear, deodorant, a package of Stanfield’s undershirts and track pants because I don’t know his exact size. When I return home, I place the items on the table and make him breakfast. I suggest he give Paul a bath. Joan is enthralled with the dog.

“Keep?” she asks.

“No, honey. Paul is Grandpa’s dog.” I pick Paul up. “He doesn’t look like a boy.”

“Paul’s a girl?” Wes asks. “Can we change his name?”

“Grandma,” Joan suggests.

“No, we are not naming the dog Grandma,” I tell her.

“What was Grandma’s name?” Wes asks. He traces the liver spots on my dad’s hands.

“Janice,” Dad answers.

“What about her middle name?”

“Mildred.” Dad chuckles. “After her own mother. She hated that name.”

I flash back to the photo of Mildred that Dan gave Mom for her birthday.

“I don’t mind it,” I say. “Anyway, the dog already responds to Paul. It’s short for Pauline. We’re not changing its name.”

Joan takes her oatmeal to the floor and eats beside the dog. “Hi, Janice,” she says.

“Paul, Joan. Her name is Paul.”

She fishes out a handful of oatmeal and attempts to feed Paul. “Here, Janice,” she says.

“Joan!” I look for my father to intervene but he’s preoccupied picking bacon out of his teeth with the hand of one of Wes’s wrestlers.

“Gross,” I comment. “Remember, you’re supposed to be at home soon. We need to go.”

My dad quickly gets his shoes and pulls his keys from his pocket. He gets into his car while I hurry the kids into their car seats. As we’re pulling down the driveway, Wes says, “Mommy, I want to have a party for Daddy.”

“A party for
Daddy?
Why do you want to do that? His birthday is in August.”

“Because he sold some of his paintings and I think we should celebrate.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” I tell him. “But can’t you ask for something more reasonable? Like a
DS
or
LEGO
?”

“Can I have a
DS
?”

“No.”

He growls. I can’t wait to get to work. I spend the morning reviewing a sponsorship request for a theatre group’s upcoming production of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. I call the director and say, “Yes.”

Cathy and I meet for lunch.

“Wes wants to have a party for Glen.”

“What for?” she asks, pushing olives from her salad to the side of her plate.

“Because he sold some paintings.”

“Yeah, I saw that in the paper.”

“What do you mean?”

“The
Herald
did a story on him.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“I assumed you would have seen it.”

I take one of the olives from her plate. “No, I didn’t. I normally read the paper at work but I was off yesterday.”

“Travel day?”

“Sort of. I needed to help my father.”

“How’s he doing?”

I pause before confessing, take a large sip of my Perrier. Then I whisper, “He started hoarding.”

“Hoarding?” She looks confused. “Like cats?”

“Why cats?”

“Isn’t that what most people hoard?”

“No, like garbage and things. Well, I guess there was a dog living there.”

Cathy’s eyes widen. She tears open a piece of dark seedy bread and slathers it with butter. “That sounds bad.”

I provide her with the lowlights.

She places her knife down. “Geez. That’s … wow. I’m sorry, Claud. Were there any signs?”

“Not really.”

“It’s just stuff, though, right? I mean, stuff can be replaced. He’s okay?”

“He’s staying with me until it’s cleaned up.”

“Wow,” she repeats.

“It’s fucked. And on top of all this, Wes wants to have a party. What do I do? I don’t want to have a party for Glen. I hate him right now.”

Cathy waves down a server. “Could I have some more water, please?”

“He’s getting on my nerves.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“And …” I lean in. “I think he’s frigging seeing someone.”

Cathy’s jaw does not drop. Her eyebrows do not hit the ceiling. “That was bound to happen at some point. It’s been a couple years now, no?”

“Depends on when you start counting. Either way, I’m not ready.”

She nods. “When you’re ready, I have complete confidence that you will have no problem meeting someone.”

“I mean I’m not ready for
Glen
to move on.” I consider telling her about Carl as proof of my own readiness to move forward, but the memory is uncomfortable. Is this why she is still single? Is it simply a matter of “readiness”?

“Just throw the party, Claudia, keep it simple. Don’t over-think it. Get a cake and some chips and let Wes make him a card.”

I sigh.

“Do it for Wes,” Cathy says. “And let me get this.” She scans the restaurant for our server and sees him at the back entering things on a touch-screen computer. “You hoo,” she calls quietly, attempting to get his attention. He does not respond, so she takes her napkin and waves it high above her head. A white flag. Surrender.

I’ll have the party.