Roost (8 page)

The kids ask to play outside when we get home
. I exchange wet mittens for dry ones and send them into the backyard. As I’m putting the groceries away, even though it’s 11:00 a.m., I open a Corona. It doesn’t seem quite right with the snow, or the hour. But it’s completely refreshing. Cathy calls and asks to come over. I welcome the company. She will see the afternoon as a project.

Now that I have
real
ornaments I’m able to swap them on the tree for a combination lock and a set of wooden spoons. The top of the tree remains vacant. This will need to be remedied.

I settle into the couch with my beer, telling myself I can take a break until Cathy arrives.
The First 48
is on
TV
. Someone finds a body hog-tied in an alleyway. A man in his fifties with pink feet. There’s an old mattress nearby with gold thread that catches the sunlight. It’s in Miami. The investigators arrive on the scene and notice bugs on the mattress. I shiver and glance out the sliding door at the backyard. The kids are building a snowman.

“Hello?” Cathy sings from the front door.

“Come in,” I call.

She hangs her coat in the closet and removes her boots.

“Grab a beer, there’s lime on the counter.”

She swings open the fridge and takes one.

“Where are the kids?”

“In the backyard.”

She pokes her lime wedge into her bottle and licks her fingers.

“I brought presents,” she says, cheerily.

“I told you not to get anything.”

“Yeah, I know, but I had to.”

She joins me in the living room, stands at the sliding door. “Do you know Wes is using your barbecue brush as a shovel?”

“Yes.”

I get up from the couch and join her, watching the kids. Joan waves and eats snow off her mitten. Highway traffic can be heard in the distance: acceleration, and uprooted slush smacking the pavement. The air is moist and dense. Perfect for colouring cheeks and carrying reindeer.

I slide the door open a crack and call, “Come inside! Cathy has presents for you.”

There is a foot race to the door. Joan pulls off Wes’s boot.

“Get your boot.”

Wes reluctantly goes back for his boot and both clamber in the house, dumping their boots beside the mat. Cathy helps them remove layers of wet clothing. I make hot chocolate. On the
TV
the hog-tied body resembles the turkey I just bought for Christmas dinner. It is moved to the morgue where it will spend Christmas alone. I shut off the
TV
as Cathy kneels on the floor and hands Wes and Joan each a present. Both are covered in bows. They each open a pair of Zhu Zhu pets. Wes jumps up and down.

“Can we open them now?” he asks. Joan has already started biting the cardboard.

“Sure,” I say.

Cathy frees both sets of mechanical hamsters and puts them on the floor. They chirp and spin in circles, moving left and right until they hit a wall and start spinning again. The kids
laugh incessantly while I dodge the hamsters. Cathy collects the packaging and hands it to me. I toss it in the recycling bin under the sink.

“Can you figure out a way to hang these?” I ask, passing her a limp stack of stockings. “I can’t find the things that go on the mantle.”

“Sure,” she replies, getting up off the floor. She rifles through my junk drawer, while I haul out ingredients for cookies. “I’m seeing a naturopath next week.”

“Are your allergies acting up again?”

“No, I’m having a cleanse. I read this article on Yahoo that said our colons are the most toxic parts of our body.”

“So what, do you have to take a bunch of pills?”

“No, the pills don’t work. Using a pill would be like flushing your engine with hand soap. It’s called colon hydrotherapy.”

I don’t know what colon hydrotherapy entails, but I picture a bum running through a sprinkler.

“They basically run water through your colon to clean it out.”

“Can’t you just sit on a hose?” I ask.

Cathy tips her head back and finishes her beer. I take her empty. “There’s more to it than that. There are special breathing techniques you have to follow. And massage. It’s going to take at least five sessions, if not more.”

“A fire hose then. Sit on a fire hose and breath heavy.”

“Claudia,” Cathy sighs. “It’s all about function. Making sure all the parts work.”

“Cathy, I’m lucky if I remember to brush my teeth in the morning.”

“Can we have more marshmallows?” Wes asks, stirring his hot chocolate with his hand.

I grab the bag from the cupboard and dump marshmallows
in the kids’ mugs. The Zhu Zhu pets have stopped. Cathy collects the four of them and places them in a line. Depresses their backs to set them into motion. They split; all go in different directions and find open space, except for a spotted one. It repeatedly smacks into the dishwasher and goes in circles. Maybe it needs its colon cleansed.

Mid-afternoon, Cathy leaves and Glen picks up the kids
. He’s giving me a couple of hours of peace before dinner at his place. Chinese food, because it’s what we used to have on Christmas Eve. I tell him I’ll be there at six.

When his car is out of sight, I haul the kids’ presents from the closet and spread them out over the living room floor. I can’t find the Scotch tape I bought specifically for wrapping presents, but I find a roll of medical tape and two rolls of masking tape in the junk drawer. I wrap until my neck is sore and I realize I’ve overspent again. On
LEGO
, big-eyed stuffies, and a fifty-dollar parchment-paper Rapunzel dress. New carpet will have to wait.

I make coffee with eggnog, take it to the living room, then I decide to take it right out to the back deck, where I stand in the snow in my slippers. I shield my eyes from the sun. Suddenly, a pair of deer emerges from the woods at the edge of our yard. They are not strangers. They are camels, according to Joan, and both girls.

I watch them get closer and agree they look feminine. Acutely alert and maternal with dainty ears and breath, I imagine, that is warm and slightly sweet, like a pancake. I am reminded of the time Glen went hunting and lied about it. The Lady’s Slipper he brought back and stuck in a mason jar. I called him an asshole while Wes stood in his crib biting the rails, and Glen told me to fuck off and tipped over a
lamp. It was nothing like the early years when we had sex in the shower, and afterwards made couscous.

The doorbell rings and one of the deer lifts her head as though she heard it too. I go to the front door where my father stumbles in and lands on his knees in the entryway. I check my watch. It is just 5:00 p.m.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, alarmed.

He hoists one leg up and grabs the doorknob for assistance.

“Sorry,” he replies, pulling himself up in a roundabout way.

“What’s going on?” I ask again. “Did you drive here?”

I step around him to see if his car is in the driveway, but there’s a cab. The driver is outside, leaning against his car. He waves at me.

“What?”

“Ten dollars!”

I get my purse and find the Scotch tape jammed into the side pocket. I run out, pay the driver in change, and he hands me a large bag of wrapped gifts my father left in the back seat. When I come back inside, my father is stretched out on the couch with his pants undone.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He says, “Rum,” and closes his eyes.

“Rum?”

Then the phone rings and it’s Dan, asking if I’ve seen him.

“Yes,” I reply, “he dropped by earlier with some presents.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“No,” I lie. “Why?”

My dad rights himself on the couch.

“Because he was supposed to be here for four.”

“What time is it now?” I fake surprise at the hour. “He’s probably lost track of time without Mom.”

Dan hesitates, then he asks, “You’re not alone, are you? For dinner?”

“No, Dan. I’m having dinner with Glen and the kids.”

“Okay,” he replies.

There is a period of silence I use to examine the calluses on my feet.

“Merry Christmas, Dan.”

I hang up and find my dad washing his face in the bathroom.

“You were supposed to be at Dan’s an hour ago.”

“What?” he asks, wringing out the washcloth.

“You should be at Dan’s! He just called looking for you.” I feel like I’m having a conversation with Wesley.

“But I thought …” He stops and scrunches his forehead and I can see that he is trying to organize his thoughts as though they are little primary-coloured blocks.

“Oh geez, can you pass me my shoes, honey?”

“Where are you going?”

“I was supposed to be at Dan’s at four.”

“Yes, but you can’t go to Dan’s smelling like that. He would freak out.”

He looks at me blankly. Like someone knocked over the blocks. I go to the linen closet and pull out an extra toothbrush with a rubber Spiderman clinging to the handle.

“Use this.”

He obliges and returns to the bathroom. Thinking for a moment, I go into the kitchen and pour the rest of the coffee from the pot into a thermos and hand it to him.

“For the road.”

“But I just brushed my teeth.”

“Let’s
go
.”

I motion for the door. Dad rummages through the bag of presents, takes ours out, and ties off the bag. “These ones are for Dan.”

I carry the presents to the tree. Most are wrapped in the green cellophane my mother used to wrap her Christmas cakes in. The sticky labels are the ones for jam, with berries in the corners. At least he made the effort; he used Scotch tape. My gift, I note, is in a tissue-less bag covered with Easter eggs.

By the time we get to my brother’s, Dad’s drunk the coffee, and seems to have sobered up. Or, at least, appears to be sober. I stop to let him off a few doors down, but I can see Allison-Jean standing in the window. She is partially obscured by oversized snowflake cutouts that hang in their window. Dad says thanks and goes to open the car door.

“Don’t forget the presents,” I remind him.

“Oh yes,” he says, and I hand him the bag of gifts, which he obediently carries carefully, one hand on the bottom.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nods and I drive away feeling pathetic and proud, like the parent, not the child, the mother, not the daughter.

There’s no sense going home before Glen’s
, but if I drive there directly from dropping Dad off I’ll be there early. And we agreed on six, so he could have time with the kids by himself. So I drive to a house in the west end that boasts a thousand or so Christmas lights to see if it’s worth the trip. If so, I will take the kids on the way home from dinner.

The weather is mild and lots of people are out walking. No one is carolling.

I can’t get close to the house because there are cars lining both sides of the road, so I park a few streets away and walk over. A fervent couple show off the display to their single over-dressed toddler, who is too young and could care less about the blinking Santa. He would rather eat rocks or suck on his foot. His parents won’t get this until he’s three and they see he’s capable of getting it. Which makes me think: Wes will get it. Will Joan? I’ll wait until next year when they both get it.

I return to my car and smell weed in the vicinity. It takes me back to my university days. When you could still smoke in the bars. Before there were iPhone apps that could check your pulse. Before people had heard about
BPA
or worried about swine flu. Before I wore clothes I bought in a grocery store. A pair of young men smoke openly across the street. They see me staring and the shorter of the two holds up the joint. I cross towards them. The joint is small, the paper wrinkled, the amount left almost negligible. I receive it carefully, pinch
the end and inhale. It tastes as I remember. Vaguely organic, yet off. Brown sugar on the burner. I turn my back to a passing
SUV
and take a second haul. The smoke, trapped in my closed mouth, encircles my tongue slowly and seductively. I hand the joint back, pull a piece of wool off my lip, and go back to my car already stoned. One of the men yells, “Ciao.” They carry on as though I’d never been there.

I feel everything and nothing. Nauseous and light. Like I could dance on pointe shoes or drive a tractor. Pass out or climb a tree.

I arrive at Glen’s a shade past six and work hard on smiling just the right amount.

“Hi,” he says, opening the door.

“Hi,” I reply, passing him my coat. I notice my face in the front hall mirror and realize I got the smile wrong. I resemble the woman who had plastic surgery to look like a cat. Glen wears grey wool pants and an argyle sweater. He looks exceptional.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” I assure him. “Just in the spirit.”

“The
Christmas
spirit?” he asks closely.

I ignore him.

“Mommy!” Wes yells. He charges over nearly knocking me to the ground. “Come see what I got!”

“I let them each open a present,” Glen says. “I’ll send the rest with you.”

“Stop staring at me,” I say, and turn my attention to Wes, who produces a tank-type thing with monster-truck wheels and a strobe light.

“What the hell kind of light is that?”

He makes shooting noises and spit flies from his mouth. Joan sits in the corner brushing the periwinkle-blue hair of a
new My Little Pony. Every once in a while she smacks it hard with the brush. I watch her play fixedly and find myself clapping when she hits it.

“Why are you clapping?” Glen asks, confused.

He sets the table. I kneel on the floor and sit on my hands.

“Come show me your piny,” I say to Joan.

She stares at me.

“What?”

Wes’s monster truck passes between us.

“I want to see your piny.”

My family stare down at me from varying heights and make me feel dizzy.

“What?” I repeat.

“I think we should eat,” Glen says. “Maybe you can see the piny after dinner.”

He tells the kids to wash their hands and goes out back. His steps are extra heavy. Like he’s trying to tenderize the floor. I pick myself up off the ground and take a seat at the table. Glen returns a minute later with a dog. It comes straight to the table and jams his head into my lap.

“This must be George,” I say, though I want to call it Jombi.

“It is.” Glen slaps his thigh. “Come here, George.” The dog saunters over, nails clicking on the hardwood floor. “Who’s a good boy?” Glen scratches George affectionately behind the ears and praises him. I watch longingly.
I’m a good boy!

We eat dinner in the dining room, which I observe has been redone. The walls are deep brown with a metallic sheen, I wager expensive paint. There are large pieces of abstract artwork hanging on the walls. Joan picks peas from her fried rice.

“Don’t put them in the butter dish,” Glen sighs.

I begin to feel less stoned. A sudden change in altitude. An
airplane making its final descent. I remove a wonton from a paper bag and balance it on the edge of my plate. Glen slides me a glass of water. The wine, which had been previously set to the right of my place setting, has been relocated, full, to the kitchen counter. I pretend not to notice. Wes dips his fingers in the plum sauce.

“What’s with the art?” I ask Glen, pointing to his paintings with my fork.

“This series of mine is called
In Contempt
.”

“You did these?”

He nods.

I am unable to process the name and what it might mean in relation to the images because I am hung up on the fact that he now paints “series” and that his “series” have names and there are so many lines. Hundreds of thousands of lines. As though all of the world’s subway maps have been transferred on top of each other.

“What do you think?”

“I like them,” I say, desiring a nap. I swallow a chicken ball whole. It passes painfully down my esophagus like a glacier over a rock, slow and immense. I hold my neck.

“Are you okay?” Glen partially stands, alarmed.

“Yes,” I squeak out. “It just went down the wrong way.”

Joan excuses herself from the table. I wipe tears from my eyes and reach for my water.

“So you really like them?”

I am no longer high. The plane has landed, finished its taxi, and I am stuck in the back row waiting to de-plane, wishing I hadn’t taken the flight in the first place.

“Yes. Though I think the middle one may be a tad too busy.”

“Really?” He ponders this for a bit. “Even despite the title?”

I don’t know what he means by this. I can only think of contempt in the context of someone being in contempt of court.

“Yes. Even despite the title.” I want George to put his head on my lap again. I want him to make me feel better. And I still want to call him Jombi. I also have a compelling urge to suck my thumb. I don’t ever want to smoke weed again.

“That one was going to be your Christmas present,” Glen says, disappointed.

I smile. “I still like it,” I say, taking the last egg roll. “How did you learn to paint like that?”

“I took a class.”

“Can I be finished?” Wesley asks.

Glen tells him to eat two more pieces of broccoli. Wes obliges then excuses himself. Joan emerges from beneath the table and follows her brother. The
TV
comes on in the next room.

“Are you drunk?” Glen asks.

“No,” I say defensively. “I’m just tired.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he argues.

“I’m NOT drunk!”

“Well you’re acting like it.” He brushes rice from the table into his hand and dumps it into the paper bag.

“I was stoned.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says sarcastically.

“What are you implying, Glen?”

“I’m
implying
nothing. I’m stating it’s inappropriate that you’d show up here all fucked up.”

“You were drunk when I delivered Joan.”

“That was different.”

“Stop fighting!” Wes calls from the other room.

“We’re not fighting!” I attempt to assure him. “How was that different?”

“I came from a golf tournament.”

“Yes, and you knew there was a good chance I was in labour that morning.”

“You didn’t call me until you were six centimetres.”

“Four.”

I get up from the table and grab the bottle of wine from the kitchen counter. Glen does not follow. I hear him blow out the candles and stack plates. I don’t even want the wine. I stand with my back to the fridge and try not to cry. Wes pads softly into the kitchen.

“
The Polar Express
is coming on next!” he says.

“That’s good,” I say. “Go quick before you miss it.”

He runs back to the
TV
room. I put the wine down and start searching through the cupboards for tea. Glen asks what I’m looking for and points to a drawer when I tell him. Then he joins the kids.

“Daddy look! It’s coming on.”

I sit hunched over my mug feeling diminished and small. George still hasn’t come to make me feel better. I see him down the hall eating a pig’s ear. I hate Glen, but I look up and there he is, standing in the kitchen’s entrance with his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I never really considered how hard this must be.”

“I want my mom.”

“I know you do.”

His phone buzzes from his pocket.

“Go ahead,” I say.

He disappears down the hall. I hear his bedroom door close. Tea sloshes from my mug as I carry it to the living room and park myself in front of the
Polar Express
between Wes and Joan. Tom Hanks is everywhere. If his fucking volleyball shows up, I’m leaving.