Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility Page 6

  “Where are you going?” the boy asked.

  William was surprised by the question at first, but realized he must have been walking with purpose. “None of your business.”

  “Can I come?” the boy asked, looking hopeful.

  “No.” They stared at each other blankly.

  “I made a boat. It was for the crabs to float on. But I can’t find any,” the boy said, motioning to the large piece of Styrofoam.

  “Doesn’t look like much fun.”

  “Nah, it’s not really. You want to help me sink it?”

  William didn’t bother answering. He raised his stick and whacked the boat, sending bits of Styrofoam flying everywhere.

  “Wait for me,” the boy yelled, running to the beach. “I need a stick, too.”

  William paused mid-strike and waited for the boy to return with his stick. The two boys swung and swung until all they were hitting was water, and tiny Styrofoam islands floated all around them.

  “It never sinks,” the boy said.

  “Nope.” William brushed bits of Styrofoam out of his hair. “I gotta go.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I told you already. It’s none of your business.” William started back on his course toward the rocks. The boy followed behind him for a ways, and when the boy didn’t turn back William swung around to face him. “I said don’t follow me.” The boy took a couple more steps and William realized maybe the boy was older than he thought, just small for his age. William raised his stick. “Don’t follow me or I’ll stab your neck.”

  FROM THE TOP OF the rocky outcrop William had a good vantage point. He could see the boy walking back to the bed and breakfast — probably to tell on him. And he could see the hole. Something was different from the day before. The branches had shifted — only slightly, but he could tell they had definitely been moved. The meat was gone. Maybe the wind had moved the branches or a bird had tried to pick up the meat. Or maybe something had fallen in. He scrambled down the rock and ran toward the hole, sliding into a crouching position. As he leaned over, he accidentally kicked some sand over the edge. A faint shuffle and a sigh escaped from the depths of the trap. He sat back a moment and thought about the sound, listening for something else. His entire body shook with expectation and fear. His hole had trapped something; he didn’t know what to think. In his hurry he had dropped his stick behind him. He ran back to grab it and crouched down again, taking deep breaths. Slowly, with his eyes squinted in anticipation, he began to pull the branches away gently, one by one, setting them down in the sand behind him.

  The creature at the bottom of the hole was shadowy, but he could still make it out: a dog. A small one, maybe a year old. It was grubby, a mutt like all the others, its brown-and-gold coat spotted with bits of rough skin from too much scratching. But it was still alive and that wasn’t what was supposed to happen. The dog was lying in a few inches of murky water. The ocean had seeped into the hole over the past week, bit by bit. The sand William had kicked in was scattered across the dog’s belly and on its face. Its front legs seemed to be bent back too far and it was blinking, trying to get the sand out of its eyes. When he had imagined the creature in the hole it was always dead. Most of the time it was a skeleton with bleached-white bones and he took the skull home and put it on the steps of the porch. Other times it was a bit messier and he had to do real man’s work. The pocketknife came out on these occasions, but the thing was always partly decomposed. It was never a broken thing. And it was never a crying dog. The dog had started to whimper and give little yelps. William walked the circumference of the hole and came to the conclusion that the dog was dying. He turned from it and ran.

  Back over the rocks he slipped and fell and didn’t feel a thing, didn’t even check his knees for gashes. He could still hear the dog’s whimpers. He ran across the length of the beach and up the path to the B&B. He ran through the empty living room and into the dining room. There was a family sitting at the dining room table: a mother, a father, two girls, and the boy from the beach. They stared at him in stunned silence. The boy grimaced. William’s mother was laying out one of her many maps of the area.

  “What have you done?” she gasped. Her face crumbled and William was sure his mother already knew everything.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” William choked, out of breath from running.

  “Oh, your knee. What a mess, come here. Let me have a look.”

  William had forgotten his knee. He looked down. Bits of gravel were embedded in the pink flesh and the blood had spilled over the torn skin and trickled down his leg. It made him ill to look at his own blood and the tissue under his skin.

  His mother pulled him into the kitchen, away from the guests. She picked him up and sat him on a stool, ran a clean cloth under the tap and pressed it to his knee. She carefully cleaned around the edges and patted the raw centre, gently picking out pebbles with a small pair of tweezers.

  “Always into things.” She frowned, trying to look stern. She rinsed out the cloth and ran it up and down his leg, wiping off the blood. The cloth was cool. It felt wonderful to him. He wanted to take it for the dog.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  William shook his head. “I slipped on some rocks,” he whispered.

  “Well, you have to be more careful.” His mother inspected his knee once more. “I never get to do this anymore. You’re getting too big.” She took a large box of Band-Aids from one of the cupboards and sealed up the cut. “Be more careful next time,” she said, patting his cheek. “Why don’t you play inside now.”

  WILLIAM WENT BACK TO his room to take a nap, but he couldn’t sleep. He remembered his rock and slithered under the bed on his stomach. He carefully placed the travertine back between the whale-shaped sandstone and the almond-sized quartzite. He ran his hand along the windowsill, gently brushing the rocks with the tips of his fingers, watching them spin slowly. He had placed the quartzite in his mouth once and chipped one of his molars. He picked up the travertine and licked the smooth surface ringed in rusty reds and ambers.

  Whenever his father returned from one of his trips, he would pull a new rock from his shirt pocket. Sometimes he would give William a rock right in the middle of the airport with William still wrapped around his neck in a hug. Other times, William had to wait until they reached the parking lot, aware the entire time of the hard lump pressed to his chest as his father carried him to the car. And sometimes his father forgot all about the rock. The next morning there would be a stone sharing William’s pillow. He could see his father’s long fingers with their carefully clipped nails — he kept them very short to keep the dirt from collecting under them — turning the rocks gently as though they were fragile as eggs. He would smooth his fingers over their surfaces, giving them a particular sheen. Over time they dulled and William would rub them furiously with his own fingertips without any results. Licking them was the only way he could get them to shine. Miriam never got rocks as presents from their father. She got notebooks or fancy pencils, and once she got a large shell full of the sounds of the ocean. Later their father explained that the shell did not contain the sounds of the ocean, but rather the sounds of the inner workings of their own ears — their blood and bones.

  William opened the window and stuck his nose outside. The wind had let up and the clouds hung low and full. A stillness had fallen over the beach, the occasional lap of a wave the only sound, no longer rhythmic but stuttering and sad. William knew he had to go back, but he didn’t feel like hurrying anymore.

  WHEN HE REACHED THE hole the dog had stopped crying. It was lying quietly, taking in shallow breaths. Another, older dog lay near the hole, tongue hanging out sleepily, spotted belly exposed. William kicked sand on the old dog and it raised its head a moment before letting it drop back with a thump. He yelled at it and hit it with his stick.

  “Get out of here, mutt. Stupid shithead mutt,
move.”

  The dog rolled over onto his back, panting heavily up at William, its paws swimming in the air. He kicked more sand on the dog. He kicked sand everywhere: at the old dog, at the dying dog. The dog in the hole started to whimper again and then yelp, short, piercing cries that bounced across the water. William sat down and pushed at the sand with his feet and hands. It only took him twenty minutes to fill the hole. Much less time than it had taken to dig.

  AS WILLIAM CLIMBED BACK up the rocks, a light sprinkling of mist coated his face and arms. By the time he got to the top it had started to rain — fat, silly drops that hit him in the eyes and trickled down his forehead in streams. When he touched his face, he could feel the red heat of his cheeks. He had the same wetness in his underarms as he’d had this morning. He stopped at the edge of the rocks to take a few deep breaths. Miriam in her yellow rain hat was trudging up the bank toward the house. He turned and watched the rain patter over the mound where the hole used to be, the drops smoothing the surface until that part of the beach looked exactly like every other part of the beach. He stayed on the edge of the rocks until his jeans were soaked and the flush had drained from his cheeks.

  WHEN HE GOT BACK to the house, Miriam was sitting on the floor in the living room, braiding a blonde girl’s hair. The girl sat poised, one knee bent, as though she was ready to bolt instantly, but Miriam still had a firm hold on one of her braids. The other stuck out crookedly from the back of her head. It looked painfully tight. The bang from the kitchen door woke his mother, who was napping on the couch beside the two girls.

  “Is the whale still there, William?” Miriam said, without looking at him. She was still focused on the blond girl’s hair.

  “The whale?” he said, confused for a moment.

  “Yeah, the dead one. I saw you by the rocks.”

  “No,” he said. “No, it disappeared.”

  “What whale?” his mom said, sitting up now on the couch. The left side of her face was lined with sleep creases.

  “There was a huge whale down that way on the beach with no eyes. The birds ate its eyes.” Miriam said. She finished the braid and the little girl instantly stood and ran into the dining room without saying goodbye.

  “A dead whale? Why didn’t you tell me about this?” His mother looked worried.

  “William said it was a secret. He said if you smelled the whale, you’d barf.”

  “William, where on the beach was it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Past those rocks,” Miriam said. William bent down and pretended to be busy taking off his shoes. He picked at the knots in his laces.

  “Well, I hope you didn’t touch it. William, take those sandy shoes outside.” His mother sank back down onto the couch and curled up like she was getting ready to go back to sleep. “How could it just disappear?” she said, through a deep yawn.

  William pulled off his shoes and looked at his hands. He had sand under his fingernails. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s gone now.”

  THE ART OF EATING

  CHARLIE BEAULIEU DOES NOT notice the day’s unusual weather. As he drives to the restaurant, he does not notice the wind wrestling the trees into dramatic bows all along English Bay. He does not see the crazed kids sprinting along the edge of the shore, shouting in glee at the sheer size of the crashing waves. He misses the sight in the park across from the ocean of the remaining fall leaves shooting out of their once-tidy piles and forming miniature gold-brown tornadoes across the lawn. Bombing down Denman Street in his second-hand Honda Civic, he fails to see the light angling through the dark clouds gathering against the mountains. He doesn’t feel the frigid note in the air or notice the birds fleeing for shelter. Charlie rolls the window down an inch to air out the smell of stale cigarettes clinging to the car’s upholstery. He stares dully, straight ahead, trying to ignore the unease beginning to brew in the far recesses of his brain, and ashes his cigarette out the slit in the window. The damp November air rushes through the crack and tickles his ear with its swip swip whisper, but Charlie Beaulieu does not notice any of the day’s remarkable happenings — the wind, the birds, the riotous ocean — because Charlie is thinking hard about how much he is worth.

  “FOR YOU,” AISHA SAID earlier that afternoon, holding up a cheerful yellow letter. She was standing at the foot of their bed in bra and sweatpants, pumpkin-baby belly exposed, holding the usual assortment of bills and grocery flyers. A frown creased the smooth perfection of her forehead. Charlie had the urge to rub it away with his thumb to preserve the suppleness of her skin. “It’s from your dad,” she said. “Look at the return address.” She held it out to him and he squinted at her for a moment — his father had died eight years ago.

  “That’s not funny, Aisha,” Charlie said, taking his glasses from the bedside table and putting them on.

  “Why would I joke about something like that?” she said. She placed the letter gently in his lap as though it might contain dangerous materials. Charlie picked up the envelope and ripped it open. A peacock proudly fanned its train across the front of the card. Inside it read, in his father’s messy scrawl, Bon Anniversaire. Tu as bien fait, and was signed Papa, which was unusual because it was his mother who had always taken charge of the cards — birthdays, Christmases, graduations — writing the sugary words of encouragement and signing them, Maman et Papa. Above his father’s message was a hastily scribbled date: August 11th, 1995 — over a decade ago.

  “Well?” Aisha said, impatiently rubbing her belly.

  “It’s Mom.” Charlie got out of bed and pulled on a clean pair of black work pants. “She’s losing her marbles. The card’s ten years old.” Charlie had cleaned out his mother’s storage space several weeks ago and brought some boxes to the care centre for her to go through. Her mind was going soft, so he’d thought sifting through the old family letters might be good for her, jog her memory out of its stupor, but it had only been making her do strange things.

  “What does it say?” Aisha sidled up to him, leaning over his shoulder to get a closer look.

  “It says nothing,” Charlie said, stuffing the card in his pocket. A pain was creeping up his sternum. “It says happy birthday.”

  THE CIVIC SPEEDS THROUGH a yellow (red) light, barely missing several pedestrians entering the crosswalk, before pulling onto Georgia Street and crawling to a stop in the line of slow-moving bridge traffic. Later today at Marinacove, he plans to ask Susan, the manager, for a raise. Charlie practices his monologue, breaking occasionally to give himself a significant look in the rearview mirror. He does notice a few things this afternoon outside the orbit of his own large head. He notices that his hands smell like dirty dishrags. He notices that someone in another car sees him talking to himself in the rearview, which makes him stop his monologue and scowl into all his mirrors to make sure no one else is looking at him. He notices that he looks hung over and pale from lack of light, which makes him look like his father. This doesn’t reassure him, because in a couple months he will be a father.

  When Charlie left the apartment this afternoon, he barely even noticed Aisha sitting at the piano pounding out Brahms. “Don’t bother saying goodbye to us or anything.” Us meaning Aisha, her piano, and the little barnacle she is hosting. She had turned herself around on the bench so she could send a withering look his way, her dark hair swaying just above her derrière, while she played a twinkly little tune with her pinky. She isn’t happy with him. He’s been leaving for work earlier and coming home later. He had to re-enter the apartment and kiss her forehead or else the look would’ve soured into something more threatening while he was away at work. Pregnant women are like that.

  “Bye bye, barnacle,” Charlie said to Aisha’s belly.

  “Don’t call the baby that.”

  The piano materialized last week, the last installment from her former abode, towed and heaved by two lithe, ropy men, friends of hers, so-call
ed musicians. He had never seen musicians built like that. The barnacle materialized eight months ago, and despite undeniable evidence, he is having a hard time believing it’s actually there. Not here yet, but there, in that contained antimatter pod. Some days he stands in the middle of his living room, staring at the piano, wondering how all this had happened. An overflowing shoe rack in his front hall, underwear hanging from his towel racks in the bathroom, a pile of half-read baby books stacked on his bedside table — she is spreading over all of his stuff, over him, like spores on a week-old loaf of bread. He drew the line at Scaredy. The cat and Aisha shared almost the exact same hair colour. It gave him the heebie-jeebies. He’d find himself talking to the cat as it sat up on the counter, or shooing Aisha’s head out of the bed. He didn’t need that kind of confusion in his life. He told her he was allergic to the cat — in a way he was.

  Charlie can see a corner of the yellow envelope sticking out from behind the sun visor. He brought it with him because Aisha is a snoop. He should dismiss the card as nothing more than an example of his mother’s steady decline, void of meaning in spite of the fortuitous timing, but he was unsettled by his father’s kind message turned sour. Tu as bien fait. Whatever Charlie had done so well back then had quickly come undone. He knew why the card was never sent. It wasn’t because of absent-mindedness; his father never forgot anything. Ninety-five was the summer Charlie lost his job at Le Remoulade, the city’s shining star of fine dining. It was the job his father never thought Charlie would have. It was his bien fait. He was thirty-six at the time — at that age his father already owned his own restaurant. Charlie spent four years at Le Remoulade, moving quickly up the ranks to First Cook. Under different management he’d surely have gone quite far in the establishment, and he doesn’t mind taking credit for the fricassée de veau au basilic they still feature on their menu. Charlie’s contract was “severed” during a period where he was having issues containing his abuse of certain substances, enjoyed with other staff members who will remain unnamed. His dismissal created quite a proliferation of hearsay among the insidious restaurant insiders, hence the reason he now found himself in a kitchen on the outskirts of the city. Despite everything, he still remembers those days with fondness — late nights wandering the strip, bursts of impromptu song, gropings of just-over-age servers at the Roxy. He’s nostalgic for those early mornings, zigzagging home through the Granville Street trash (animate and inanimate) as the sun began to burst over the buildings. On occasion, he’ll bestow his new staff at Marinacove with a story from those bygone days: the time he accidently snorted crystal instead of blow and was up for three days straight working doubles; or the time he was so trashed during dinner service, he burnt the bottom of his pan and sent the entire pot of artichokes in garlic saffron sauce right across the kitchen, narrowly missing six staff members. He had wanted to burn them all — or so he tells the story.