What They Wanted (18 page)

T
HE SPEED OF THE JET ENGINES
flying me back across the country felt much slower than the flight home a few days before. Tightening my stomach through a bout of turbulence, I thought back over those early hours of morning. As in a dream, I carried before me the ghastly image of Mother’s face peering through the darkness of her window as I slipped behind the wheel and pulled away from the wharf. And now, strapped inside the plane with Chris holding his head painfully in the window seat beside me, staring down at the boreal forest beneath us, it felt like a dream that kept going deeper.

I looked at him, his shoulders heavy with our mother’s fear, our father’s sickness, and yet his eyes, fastened to the earth below, were still awed by the grandeur of the Newfoundland spruce forest that had filled his window during takeoff, the distant, long-range mountains grazing the sky, their teeth rounded by time.

The forest had settled beneath us now like a cloak of mosaic greens, its festoon of ponds glistening like scattered pearls. The plane lurched and I instinctively reached for his hand, hating lurches, hating flying, although I’d never say so to him, being the eldest and all. He patted my hand reassuringly, his gaze never leaving that outer scaleless void where even fear is overwhelmed.

Folding my coat and tucking it against his shoulder, I prepared for a long sleep, shaking my head to the attendant rattling past with a food cart and wishing I could be more awake, more enthused about our first trip together since the boat ride from Cooney Arm to the Hampden shoreline. And Chris would love the prairies, I knew he would. I’d shared with him in letters my feelings of ease upon that endless flat land with the big blue sky reaching down around me like a bell jar, fat clouds floating overhead. And I loved too the ease of the wind over the land, so fine and gentle and playing itself to the indulgence of thought—the perfect place for you and your dazes, Chris, for a day rolls on forever and you can track the sun from dawn till night, and with no dirty old water slopping at your window.

I felt a pang. The letter Mother must’ve read. But I’d been joking. I loved the water slopping at the window. I’d written further down on the page how I missed the damn old water slopping at the window, and my pillow with Gran, and my place at the table, sipping tea with Father—even missed groaning with Mother about the slob ice filling the bay and seagulls shitting on the wharf. Had she not read that far? I shifted in my seat. Perhaps she had read that far. Perhaps she remembered only what best served her conviction: that I, Sylvie, was stealing her boy from home. The weasel making off with the prize chick.

I opened my eyes onto his soft yellow hair, his face smooth yet pained as he tried tucking his head onto his shoulder for comfort. He stiffened, trying to stretch out his legs beneath the seat in front of him, his eyes clinging to the window and the endless green belt of forest with nary a track nor feature to hold him.

“The real prairies are Saskatchewan, not Alberta,” I said quietly, wishing we’d hurry and cross into those flat lands all squared and circled by plows and grass so’s he’d feel more easy, more grounded again, at least in the familiarity of man’s markings, if not the land itself. “We’ll drive there some weekend.”

“Is it as flat as you say?” he asked.

“Watch your dog run away for three days.”

He laughed. “I knows the wind don’t gallop over that.”

“Grit in holes you didn’t know you had.”

“Make for good hunting, eh? Ben doing much hunting?”

“Don’t know, don’t see him, sleepy time now.”

I plumped up my coat and tried for sleep. I felt more than heard Chris grin, a hint of mischief finding its way back, and I leaned into its comfort. Maybe it was going to be fine, I consoled myself. I’d find him work, perhaps in the construction site just down the road, the big new hotel going up— good crew, always in the bar for a beer after lunch, most of them from the Maritimes—they’d take care of him. After work he could meet me at the bar and we’d drive home in my old but nice red car. Home. Mmmm. Yeah, better warn him about that, I thought; but hell, that would be fine too—perhaps it would all be fine, we’d make lots of money and send it home to the family. Plus, I could send back what I’d saved for grad school if I had to. Mother couldn’t argue if I tossed my money in with Chris’s and we both sent it home.

I squirmed about for comfort, thinking it was good in other ways that Chris was finally leaving home. Perhaps he’d be open to art school—if Dad recovered well enough. Once he got a taste of living on his own, of being immersed in his drawings and amongst others like himself, he’d want more than a room in his father’s house. For he was like me in some respects—we both needed a larger world to draw upon than a rocky cove, no matter the sweetness of its shores. And despite her resistance, surely Mother understood. Had she not pined for that something other once? And perhaps life had planed away that unrest inside of her, but surely she remembered her want for some one thing that was just out of sight down the road, the key to some heavenly room perhaps, if she could just walk far enough to reach it. For what is life if not that vitality of spirit, if not the tension between what is and what could be if one were to walk a little farther down that road? And in that, perhaps, Mother had failed herself, or had given over to a different want. Surely she would come to see that, and be glad of Chris’s having left. She would nurture the bright, shining colours in his young eyes before they muted to those softer shades, and worry lest everything slip into shades of grey as they had for Father.

“Sis.”

“Mmm.”

“I think you likes him.”

“Ohh!” Pulling my coat off his shoulder, I bunched it to my other side and buried my face. Mercifully, the attendant passed out little pillows and blankets, and I was able to cover up. Sleep, however, curled as I was like the letter C, was impossible.

And keeping Ben out of my head was impossible, too. Against my most ardent wishes I saw him striding across the noisy, crowded student centre at Memorial University in St. John’s. I remembered how my insides quickened, how my cheeks flushed foolishly. I was three weeks into my first semester and feeling quite at ease amongst the throngs swarming through the corridors and classrooms, yet as I approached Ben Rice it felt as though I’d just discovered my feet.’Course, I wasn’t sure at first it was him, given the curls rioting about his head, the bottom half of his face partly bearded, and his eyes hidden behind rimless, stylish shades. And he was taller than I remembered, and looked kinda older.

Clutching my armload of books, I continued after him as he vanished inside the campus bar. I searched through the dark-red lighting, spotted him and called his name, hurrying towards him, proud of the hardcover philosophy books I was toting, holding them higher so’s not to escape attention. He turned towards me and I managed a casual smile. Then, removing his shades, he walked straight past without seeing me, the smell of pot lingering in his wake, and took a seat amongst a lethargic crew of hennaed redheads and bearded guru types, all seeming to meld together in their T-shirts and jeans. Relics from the early seventies, I thought, bemused. Along with a few metalheads in ripped leather jackets sitting on the sidelines, they were keeping a wary distance from the spike-haired punk rockers with studded chokers and chains holding court a few tables away.

Ben looked about, trying to signal a waitress, then got up again and strolled towards the bar. Eagerly, and more than a bit nervous, I moved into his path.

“Hey, buddy, I like your hair,” I said, and stood back with a saucy tilt to my head, examining him. I burst into giggles as he stared at me through enlarged pupils, for it frightened me seeing them all dilated and glazed, with only vaguest sign of recognition. And I’d suddenly realized that, aside from a few hours played out upon a summer’s green some three years before, I knew nothing of Ben Rice.

Ben’s eyes cleared and his face relaxed into that old enthusiastic manner I so remembered. Grinning, he grasped my shoulders, and with a loud “Well, whaddya know,” drew me against him in a bear hug, kissing my cheek.

I pushed him away, so exulted I thought I’d burst.

“What’s that, what’s that?” He pulled me back, sniffing my hair, my neck. “Is that Hampden dust? Man, I crave Hampden dust,” and he gave me another tight hug.

I pushed him away. “You drunk or what?”

“Drunk!” he snorted, highly offended, and reeled back a step, studying me anew. “Naw. Never. Well, whaddya know! Listen, sweetheart—ah—” His eyes clouded and he swayed on his feet. “Oh, yeah, right—just a sec—little boys’ room. You wait—see over there—way over there,” he pointed to his seat amongst the longhairs, “go sit by crazy Trapp—hey, Nutcase,” he yelled, “look who’s here. So how’s our little Pablo, eh, and how are you? Hold that thought—wait till I gets back.” He paused, steadying himself on his feet for a second, and stared at me. “Hey, Sis, whew—you’ve grown. Mother said to look for you—” He swayed again, and thinking he might fall, I held on to his arm.

He laughed. “Go—sit with Trappy—wait for me—you’ll wait for me?” He gripped my hand, and then, without waiting for an answer, moved off with such a tremulous step it seemed the slightest breeze would topple him.

I looked back to his group, seeing Trapp for the first time. He was leaning back in a chair, more focused on the blue puffs of cigarette smoke emitting from his mouth than on the longhairs nodding about him. He’d grown more catlike, his reddish blond hair matting his forehead and his seventies sideburns and tuft of chin hair framing his pointy face. He squinted through the smoke at Ben’s receding back, then at me. Taking another drag of his cigarette, he blew a smoke ring towards me as one might a kiss.

I gave an uncertain smile, but then laid my books on the nearest table and sat facing the doorway Ben had drifted through. I opened a book, pretending to read, thinking of thoughts to share with him. I’d received a letter from Chris that morning, and took it now from one of my books along with a small sketch of the bay depicting fog swirling over the water, faces and hands barely discernible through the mist, reaching longingly towards something off the page. Sliding a comb out of my purse, I swept it through my longish fine hair then finger-fluffed my bangs. Five minutes passed, then ten. I dug out a lipstick, glossing my lips, smiling back critically into a little hand-held mirror. A few bits of gossip from home flitted through my mind, and I made note to mention them.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, when I finally realized Ben wasn’t returning, my thoughts fell into emptiness. Gathering my things, I left the bar.

A group of history students I’d been spending time with were sprawled around a table in the nearby student centre. They were much more conservative than Ben’s crew—the fellows with shorn hair and ball caps, the girls sporting ponytails and sweatpants, our most adventurous evening thus far featuring little more than cold beer and cigarettes. A comfortable crew no doubt, and yet throughout the next few days I wore my eyes out searching through the packed cafeteria and bar looking for Ben. It had surprised me how quickly I’d adapted to university life with its hordes of students, the constant rumble of chatter, the air clouded with smoke and fairly ringing with the clanging of cutlery and dishes and serving trays. But in my daily searches for Ben all that became a huge irritant.

I was sitting beneath an oak tree on the campus grounds, trying to find a moment’s quiet, when Ben happened upon me.

Calling out my name, he came loping through brown puddles of autumn leaves and sprawled beside me, his tangled hair looking more like dreadlocks than curls.

“Hey, hey, so I didn’t dream it,” he said, a bit winded, his eyes wearing the same wasted look they’d had in the bar. “Sylvie. Sylvia Now.” He laughed and tugged my hair so hard it hurt.

I touched his hand, smiling, feeling shy and intensely aware of the passage of time between us, the unfamiliarity of his presence. “You stood me up. In the bar,” I blurted. “You were supposed to come back, you didn’t.”

He sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Sorry about that. I was kinda … under the influence.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay.”Striving to find some commonality, I started on about his mother. “She made me promise to find you, she’s worried sick, says you never call home or visit her— and the number you gave her don’t work.”

“Cuz she wore it out,” he said, falling onto his back. “Jeezes, she was calling ten times a day.” He gave a mock shiver then rose onto his elbow, studying me. “So, how’re you doing— damn, you’re pretty.”

“Thank you, thank you muchly,” I said, flushing, “but, anyway, that’s the message from your mother—you missed her birthday, she wants you to call her.”

He pushed aside a look of irritation. “When I get another phone—damn, keep forgetting,” he said unconvincingly. “Soo, what courses you doing—how’s Pabs? I don’t remember this long hair,” and he tugged it again, drawing a yelp of protest from me. He laughed, and I didn’t care that his eyes were wasted and his pot-fuelled laugh didn’t have the trueness in it that I remembered from those lingering days on the wharf. It was just so good to be sitting with him again, to be teased by him again, and in a very short time I was sitting comfortably, chatting away. I pulled out Chris’s swirling fog faces, holding it before him, pleased by the studious manner in which he examined the sketch.

“Are you still drawing?” I asked.

“Naw. I can’t draw—play around a bit, is all.”

“What’s that, then?” I pulled a sketch pad from the open mouth of a canvas bag he’d dropped beside him. There was a brick hastily sketched on its cover. Putting on my old taunting look, I scrutinized it carefully. “Muddy it up,” I intoned. “Soften it with petals—metal petals, infuse it with time.”

He laughed, his eyes softening on my face. “Still the same strife-breeder. A brick’s a brick, silly girl. Yeah, you’re a strange one; straight as a flute, yet riddled with thought.”

“How do you know I’m straight—what’s straight—is that a bad thing?”

“That’s a good thing.” He tossed a pile of leaves onto my head and lay back laughing as I brushed them aside, pitching a handful back in his face.