The Thirteen (7 page)

She did. Rowan saw her mother blush under the scrutiny and she understood why. This time, instead of feeling embarrassed

I heard your mom’s a stripper

she wanted to chase the woman away. Beside her on the porch, Old Tex was tense too.

Marla pronounced Paula beautiful. “You’re even better looking that when I last saw you!” she said. “When was that, exactly? Hmmm? It has to be about twelve years ago …”

Paula shifted awkwardly in her grasp. “Well, we’ve been home once since then, but Rowan got sick and we didn’t stay long enough to see anyone. So it’s actually a little longer, I think.”

“Mom.”

It was clearly an interruption, and two sets of eyes turned questioningly towards the girl. Marla grinned with only one side of her mouth.

“What?”

She swallowed. “We were going to walk Tex, remember?” It came out more petulant than she’d intended.

Her mother frowned. “Ro, please! This is my old friend Mrs. Riley-Moore. Marla, this is my daughter, Rowan.”

“Oh, we introduced ourselves, didn’t we, Rowan?” Marla clasped her hands together. “I was so happy when Izzy told me you were here. It’s a blast to see you again! I hope you’re staying.”

The two women were grinning idiotically at each other.

“I don’t know how long we’re staying, actually. You know my mom’s sick?”

Marla’s face went sombre for a moment and she nodded. “I heard. My mom was the one who called the ambulance. How is she?”

Paula shrugged. “She just seems … sick, I guess. I still haven’t talked to the doctor. I tried to find him this morning but apparently he’s a ghost.”

Marla made a sympathetic noise, then brightened again. “Now that you’re back, we have to do it up right. I’m going to reintroduce you to the wonders of Haven. Come to my house on Friday and meet the girls.”

Paula smiled gratefully. “Oh, Marla, that sounds great. Can you stay a minute or two now? Cup of coffee?”

“I wish I could. But here’s my address.” She dug in her purse and brought out a small card. “I’m on Proctor,” she said. “By Mom’s place. Remember?”

Paula took the card and nodded. “Oh,” she said, and glanced back at the porch, where her daughter was pointedly waiting with the dog.

Rowan took the opportunity to hurry things along. “Mom? Are we going?”

Marla tinkled her laugh and put a hand on Paula’s arm. “You’d better get going. I know the scene—I have two of my own.”

Then the two of them were off again, talking about children, blah blah. Rowan sighed and retreated into the house, taking Tex with her. On their way through the door—her
mu-ther
didn’t even notice she was leaving—Old Tex swung his head back for another look. Rowan fantasized that the old guy was broadcasting a warning.
Go home
.

In her mom’s old room she parted the curtains just wide enough to peer out at the two of them on the walk. They were still gabbing, gabbing, dark heads bent together like crows

(pecking at something interesting and dead)

She went from the window to the closet, found her school blazer with the St. Mary’s crest

(Semper Vigilans)

and put it on. She felt a little better. Then she pawed through her school bag and from the bottom fished out her pink plastic crucifix; they had all got one as a prize in the Lives of the Saints spelling bee the week before she got suspended. It was crappy and cheap, and as she pulled it out she hoped the little white Jesus hadn’t fallen off.

Jesus was still glued to his cross. Rowan put it in the pocket of her blazer. Then she went into the living room and turned on the television, settling in for the short term at least. A rerun of the
Jerry Springer Show
came on. A big fat lady picked up a chair and threw it across the room at another lady, screaming obscenities that were bleeped out.

She sat watching, sticking her hand into her pocket now and then, keeping track of the cawing and gabbing outside.

Marla was so beautiful now, Paula thought. The awkward teen she had been was entirely erased. Her hair, her eyes—there was no mistaking it was Marla, but it was as though someone had retouched her, narrowing her jawline, lengthening her legs, scooping in her waist.

“I think you’ll like the girls I’m hanging out with,” Marla said. “You’ve probably heard of one of them—Joanna Shaw?”

Paula was impressed. Shaw was a popular talk-show host. “She lives here?”

“Yes, and she’s a good friend. You know her show is going national next week?”

Paula did know that. “How did you get to know her?”

“Oh, I did a little consulting work for her,” she said. “But anyway, I’ll invite Joanna and a few of the other girls over, and I promise you’ll have fun.”

“Well, it’ll be nice to see people, whether I know them or not.”

“You’re home now. Where you belong.” Marla put her hand on Paula’s arm. It was comforting.

“What about your husband? Will I get to meet him?”

“Oh, he’ll be at work. I make sure he works very hard for us.” Marla laughed, and Paula felt included in the joke, whether or not she could imagine making a man work hard for her.

Finally Marla said, “I really have to run. Can’t wait for Friday.” She got her keys out of her purse as Paula walked her to the car. She climbed inside and Paula leaned to look in the open passengerside window.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Marla smiled happily. “It’ll be like old times. But better—for both of us.” And she pulled away from the curb, pushing her sunglasses down over her eyes in a single smooth, elegant gesture. Like a movie star.

Paula reached into her pocket and pulled out Marla’s card. It was plain white, with a black border. Very posh.

She looked up at the house, wondering what in hell she would wear, knowing full well that whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be able to compete with Marla. She was lost in these thoughts all the way back into the house, where she discovered her daughter curled up with stinky old Tex in front of the TV, so bored she was radiating.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “We’ll walk the dog!”

Marla was frowning as she drove off. It had been good to see Paula. Weird, and good also, to drive up to that house and see a young girl on the step. For a second it seemed as if Marla had travelled back in time—sixteen, seventeen years back—had shown up at the Wittmores the way she’d done when they were twelve or thirteen.
Hey, Mrs. Wittmore, can Paula come out?
It had been so like that for a moment that she’d been startled.

(that wasn’t all—the girl also looked a little like)

Well, she was a copy of Paula as a child. You could see Paula all over her; that was what had startled her. The girl had beautiful eyes. They were not Paula’s eyes, though. Paula’s eyes could be called catlike and were not her best feature, although she could probably work them a bit more if she wore some makeup.

Of course, the child’s eyes could have come from her father.

The first thing she had thought when she saw the girl sitting on the step was
Hey, Mars Bar! Catch!
The words echoed distinctly in her head, though she hadn’t heard that voice in years. Too many years

(so what’s
that
supposed to mean?)

Marla did not like the direction her thoughts were taking. The reptilian part of her brain shoved them down with a protective instinct so effective that her next thought was
that child looks like Paula—if Paula looked a little better
. “Beautiful” had been a little white lie. In fact, Paula didn’t look good. She looked … 
dishealthy
. That wasn’t a word, but it fit. Everything that was wrong in Paula’s life was showing: she was too poor and too sad and too lonely. Of course, all of that would change. She was home now. They could be friends again. Everything would be all right.

Three, maybe four long hairs

cheaply dyed, poor thing

clung to the sleeve and shoulder of Marla’s suit. She counted them, her eyes darting between the road and the fabric. Four.

She pulled over to the shoulder and parked. The street was deserted, as it usually was in the middle of the day in Haven Woods. People were at work, or sleeping, or doing things with the blinds drawn.

Safety first. Marla dialled her mother’s cell. It rang six times before Izzy answered. Marla put on her sunshiny voice. “Hello, Izzy,” she said.

“Why won’t you call me
Mother?”
Izzy said, exasperated.

Marla reached into her purse and pulled out a small empty Baggie. “It’s all set for Friday.”

“Oh, good,” Izzy said. “That’s all right, then.”

Cradling her cell between shoulder and ear, Marla got a clothes brush out of the glovebox and slowly, carefully swept each hair off her jacket, picked them off the brush and put them in the Baggie.

“I met the daughter.” Marla zipped the bag closed and put the brush back in the glovebox.

“What did you think?”

“She’s very … young. Clearly bright as a button, though she didn’t say much. A little bitchy, I suspect.”

“You would know.”

Marla held the Baggie with Paula’s four long hairs in it. “So why do I feel bad?”

Izzy was firm. “Because you haven’t learned the value of sacrifice yet. It comes with age. You’ll get used to it.”

“Sacrifice.” Marla tucked the Baggie into her purse. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m going home for a run. Where are you?”

“I’m in the car. What have you done with my grandchildren?”

“They’re with Esme.”

“Oh gawd,” Izzy said, disgusted. “She’ll have taught them to freebase by now, or to draw dirty pictures.”

“Mother, I’m hanging up. And don’t use your phone while you’re driving; it’s dangerous. What if you got into an accident? Then what would I do?”

“I’m hanging up. Bye, dear.” The phone went dead.

Marla stared at the phone a moment, her eyes narrowed. Then she texted a message to Izzy.
WTCH TH RD *ITCH
.

She still had one of the pebbles from the Wittmores’ front walk in her pocket. With adolescent vitriol, she flicked it at the dash. It knocked harmlessly against the radio dial and fell to the floor. She thumbed the phone off, put it away in her purse with the Baggie, out of sight. You never knew.

She would stop for Starbucks, she decided. She wanted something sweet. She felt like celebrating. Everything would be all right. The way it used to be. Before Chick went rogue.

Whatever thoughts of Rowan had niggled at her before, they had disappeared. It didn’t bear thinking about.

A skinny mocha. That was what she’d have.

SIX

S
ANDERSON
K
EYES HAD TREATED
himself to a sledgehammer that afternoon, bought at his new hardware store. Nice enough place. Huge. Far. There was nowhere to shop in Haven Woods. To get to the hardware he’d had to drive to a mall twenty minutes away. But he’d get used to it; in the suburbs you drove everywhere. When he’d lived here as a kid, he had a distinct memory of being driven to school, not ten blocks from their old house.

When he got older, he and his buddies—Hop Robson, Butch Wright, Goose Evans—rode their bikes everywhere. Turned them into their recreation too, driving them up ramps, doing wheelies. Sanderson’s cobalt blue Specialized had weighed twelve pounds. They’d lived on their bikes, and in the case of his little brother, nearly died. Lonnie, who definitely had the bigger mouth of the two Keyes brothers, had shot it off one summer afternoon, betting he could jump his BMX over the Evans’s car. About ten of them had spent hours building a cross between a ramp and hard place. When Lonnie finally worked up the balls to try the jump, he crashed—bad.

Sanderson brought the sledge down hard on the wedge he’d fitted into the cracked seam in the side of the old brick barbecue. The hammer hit with a flat, solid
crack
and a quarter of the ill-made wall crumbled to the grass in his new backyard. It was going to be a bitch to clean up.

He set the sledge down and worked a few bricks loose by hand, frowning. He was remembering the sound Lonnie had made when he smacked the top of that car, his bike jetting out from under him, sliding off the metal roof, scratching a deep groove in the paint. But the sound! His back and shoulder had hit first, and the crowd of kids gave a collective
oooooh
, thinking,
Cool!
because an accident is just what you hope to see when some kid rides his bike up a homemade ramp and over a neighbour’s car. But when Lonnie’s head smashed down on the metal roof, the sound was unlike anything Sandy had ever heard—a wet, living sound, the sharp smack as eloquent as an actual word. The worst thing that had ever happened

(but that wasn’t quite true)

at the time.

At least until David Riley had his head cut off.

The worst thing until then.

Sandy had jumped up onto Mr. Evans’s car and grabbed his brother. In retrospect it was the absolute wrong thing to do, but what did a bunch of asshole kids know about spinal injuries or brain damage? Brain damage was what rubbies got from sniffing glue, and spinal injuries were practically unheard of around there. So he grabbed his little brother, saw the blood, pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around Lonnie’s head.
Dipshit
, he’d called him.

stupid dipshit Mom’s going to kill us

There had been no permanent damage, except to the rest of the summer. Both of them had to work hard to pay for the damage to Mr. Evans’s car. Lonnie because he was a (dipshit) fool and Sanderson because he hadn’t stopped him.

The adult Sanderson considered: now that he was back in the ’hood, maybe he should get a bike. And then laughed at himself a little. Maybe he was regressing.

He picked up the sledgehammer again and swung it in an arc through the air, testing the heft. Sweet. He liked a new tool. The head was shiny steel and he could see himself in it if he wanted to look. Which he didn’t. He already knew about the dark circles under his eyes and the beer bloat from going out too often with his buddy Lenny, whose break-up theory was
hey, man, the fastest way to get over someone is to get on top of someone else
.

While buying the sledge he’d allowed himself a quick fantasy about what Ted Kimmel, the CKX Weather Specialist—also known as the Big Shit Who Stole My Wife—would sound like as the hammer came down on his skull. Like a watermelon split by a bolt of lightning. In his imagination it was quick, bloodless, not so much violent as cathartic.

Deconstruction of the barbecue would take much of the afternoon. It was a pleasant thought, this idea that the day was laid out for him. He’d panicked briefly that morning when he realized he was pretty much moved into the new place and still had five more days of leave from work.

The new place.
His
new place. Had to get the language right, the therapist said. A hundred and twenty dollars an hour to tell him he shouldn’t blame his ex-wife because she had slept with the CKX Weather Specialist (the Big Shit), and to always be sure to
get the language right
.

claim your half, Sanderson

Ripping into the monstrosity in the backyard was the sort of therapy Sanderson could honestly use.

On all fronts except marriage he had done well for himself, getting into home construction and building a company out of dirt and plywood. He was careful and a fair employer, getting and keeping good people by paying well and working hard himself. Sanderson Homes had developed a reputation for quality. He built houses from the ground up and did major renos, but Sanderson’s favourite was restoration. Hence buying this house in Haven Wood.

Built around 1971, it resembled the home in
The Brady Bunch
, with a sloping roof that angled down over the carport and a wide front entrance. It was a tall house and the layout was bi-level: you walked up to the living room and down to the family room. The kitchen and utility room were side by side at the back, and both had exits to a stone patio. The three bedrooms were clustered on the upper level, two smaller bedrooms across from the over-large master. Ensuite bathroom, full second bath. The house still felt a little empty, but he would fill it soon enough. With his own stuff.

He’d been raised in a house much like it, six blocks away. There was a tree in front of his new house, so much like the one in front of the old house, he had an urge to climb it and throw stones at girls as they walked by.
Psych!

Sanderson leaned the sledgehammer against the barbecue he was halfway through destroying and stood in the sun for a moment. It was a lot of work, but there was no way he could keep the structure, for fear that someone would think he was the one who’d made it. He raised the sledge again and was about to fire it down, when from behind him came a single sharp bark. He looked over his shoulder to see Gusto, paws up on the kitchen’s screen door.

“What do you want?” The dog panted happily, barked again.
Come see
. Then his mother was at the door.

She and the dog came out into the yard, Gusto scrambling to get to Sanderson first. The dog jumped up on him and then ran the length of the yard, sick of being cooped up.

“Oh my gawd,” Anne Keyes said, looking at the mess that was the former barbecue. “You’ll never get that cleaned up.” She held a small wrapped box out to him. “I brought you a housewarming present.”

He took it. “Is it a ventilation system?”

She laughed. “Something like that.” In the corner was a yellow bow. She pulled it off and stuck it on Sanderson’s shirt. “There, now you’re gift-wrapped for some lucky girl.” She pulled the lid off the box and let it drop to the grass. Gusto sniffed it interestedly.

Sanderson peeled away the tissue inside to reveal a square of yarn woven over two crossed sticks. He was confused but grinned at his mother.

“You and Lonnie made them at camp when you were little. I don’t remember whose is whose, but they were both the same.”

He lifted it out of the box by its yarn hanger. Four concentric squares in white, dark blue, light blue and white surrounded a red and yellow centre, made by the inexpert hand of a boy doing a craft for the first time. “I think it’s very nice,” he said, touched.

“It’s called a God’s eye. It repels evil.”

“Whoa.” He laughed. “I could’ve used this a year ago.”

There was an awkward silence as the dark spectre of the divorce made an appearance. Then it passed.

“You hang them at points of egress—doors, windows, that sort of thing. Where people can see it.”

He laughed out loud.
“Egress?
Mom, what did you smoke with your whisky this morning?”

She laughed too. “Just hang it by the front door.”

She crouched down to talk to the dog, scratching him under the chin. “What about Gusto? Does my Gusto love that? Does he?”

“You know he’s a dog, right?”

She caught Gusto’s face in her hands and kissed him on the muzzle. “Be quiet. So far this is my only grandchild.”

Her son winced. His brother Lonnie’s wife, Terri, was on her third miscarriage, and now Sanderson’s marriage had broken up. The dog
was
her only grandchild. It was an old joke, but it had become less funny in the past couple of years.

“Are those hot dogs on the counter for your supper or his?”

“Ma—”

She waggled her finger at him. “Don’t use the single life as an excuse to eat badly. I stuck a couple of steaks in your fridge. A few other surprises too.”

Touched again, he said, “I have the best mom. Thanks.”

His mother gave his cheek a pat. “I’ll get going now. I just stopped by to drop that off for you.” She looked around the yard. In spite of the heat she wrapped her arms around herself. “I have to admit I don’t like coming back to Haven Woods.”

“Ma, we used to live here.”

“I know. I’m just saying—” She shrugged, smiled. “Don’t mind me.”

“What?”

“You’ll be okay here,” she said, very seriously.

“Of course I will.” Sanderson was still confused. “Mom, don’t worry about me. I’m getting past it all. I really am.”

Anne opened her arms and gave her older son a hug. “I’m outta here. Things to do, people to see … You take that poor guy for a walk, eh?”

He hugged her back. “I’m on it. See you later.”

“Don’t forget to hang that up, okay? Indulge your mother, who laboured seventeen hours with you and your big head.”

He laughed. Just before she went through the back door, Sanderson saw her give a last nervous glance over her shoulder at the endless row of backyards to the west.

Then Gusto was at his feet, wagging his tail. “You heard her. Let’s get your leash. Leash!” Gusto ran towards the house, followed by Sanderson. They were both still figuring things out, but he was a smart dog. He’d have the neighbourhood sussed in a couple of days. The man held the door open and the dog ran in.

In under a minute Gusto was back with his leash in his mouth, tail wagging furiously. Smart dog.

–

Paula walked up the street, east towards the park and the river, trailing Tex and her daughter, who’d moped around the house after she’d been rude to Marla as if Marla was the one who had been out of line. Paula sighed, knowing that her daughter was bored and dreading the weeks ahead without school to keep her occupied. At least she was happy now, tugging the old dog on his leash.

To the west was the rest of Haven Woods, a seemingly endless vista of houses that shifted where the land sloped gently upwards to a vista of roofs, all of them unremarkable shades of green, grey, blue. These familiar streets smelled the same as they had when she was small: of the river and the faint scent of cut grass, and the even fainter aroma of yeast from Dawn’s Bakery.

A cat jumped up on a fake wishing well and hunkered down as they passed.

There had been bad things about growing up here. Then horrible things, when David and her dad died within weeks of each other. But those bad things were somehow not what she was remembering now about Haven Woods. Instead she remembered how smooth her life had been back then.

It had all been so easy. It was not like that for Rowan. Never had been, no matter how hard she tried.

“So what do you think of the Cubs’ chances for the pennant this year?”

Rowan had been staring at the squares of sidewalk under her feet as she walked, but now she swung her head around and made a face at her mother. “What are you talking about?”

“My dad used to say that to me when I wasn’t talking.”

“My grandpa?”

“Yeah.”

Ro’s face was unsmiling. She held Old Tex’s leash loosely in her right hand as the dog walked happily beside her.

I’m taking Tex home let’s change tops

“What about my dad?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, was he from here?”

Paula shook her head no.

“But I’m twelve, right? Weren’t you still living here twelve years ago? So weren’t you pregnant here?”

“Ro!”

“Well, weren’t you?”

“I said no.”

They stopped at the corner. The only noise was the distant hum of a lawnmower. Suburban Muzak.

“I just want to know about him.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me.”

With a sigh, Paula said, “You know the story. He died in a car wreck. Before you were born.” She reached out and touched her daughter’s head. “You have my hair, but you have your dad’s eyes.”
Dad
was an unfamiliar word between them, and it felt false to say it.

“Was he nice?”

I love you Pauls you’re my girlfriend

The tears were years behind her, but thinking about him here in Haven Woods caused a tightening in her chest, sad and bleak. “Yes, he was. Maybe I should get married, huh?” She said it as much to distract herself as Rowan.

“Ew. I don’t know. Do you want to?”

Paula snorted. “A boyfriend might be good. And yeah, I think I would like to get married.” She thought about Marla’s comment about her husband working hard for them. That would be nice. Very nice.

“That woman who came over—did she really use to be your best friend?”

A car swung lazily around the corner and started moving towards them. It was going no more than ten miles an hour, but they stayed on the curb, waiting for it to pass. If it had been the city Paula would have thrown up her hand and made it stop.

They used to play ball hockey on this street—the boys would—right up until it snowed, a Sears goal net at either end. A car would come along and one of the boys would yell,
Car!
and everyone would move off the street, the goalies carrying the nets on their shoulders.

In the summer they played baseball. The girls would go and watch the boys.