Late Breaking Read online

  But what if it had actually happened in his lifetime? Where would he have fit, in the scheme of things? He was fifteen when the Second World War ended. His father had fought in the Great War, and never stopped talking about it. Unlike other boys his age, Len did not chafe at being just too young to join up. He felt secretly relieved, as if he’d gotten off scot-free.

  He took a general bachelor’s degree and became a high school teacher in Sackville, New Brunswick. He was good enough in the classroom to keep order and impart his subject, which was geography. An inoffensive discipline, neither soft art nor hard science, offering a smorgasbord of topics from tariffs on trade goods to tectonic forces shifting the ground beneath his students’ feet.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he married a strikingly beautiful woman who got more so with age, her white hair contrasting dramatically with her dark brows. A woman, however, who was not unlike one of those tectonic forces—never resting, never satisfied, incapable of engaging with an individual or a group without pushing them around.

  Joan was scornful of Sackville, for all she practically ran its cultural and spiritual life. She was furious with Len for refusing a vice-principalship in Moncton—A real city, at least! This place is a village! But Len for once put his foot down and refused to move. He had found his place. Sackville was a city, albeit a cosy one, with its historic university and fall fair. It was small enough that he could walk back and forth to work each day. Walk to church each Sunday morning. Afford a big old house with a wraparound porch that never failed to move him when he turned the corner at the end of the day and sighted it. He was used to his life. Even the discomforts of his marriage were accustomed discomforts. He never cheated on Joan. Not for lack of opportunity. A high school teacher in a small place like Sackville gets a certain number of eyes turning his way. But it stopped with the eyes. Sometimes Joan would even have to tell him—Didn’t you see Trish Bromley just throwing herself at you?—after some gathering or other. All he would remember would be the woman’s upturned face, her expression interested. Well, all right. Maybe a bit more than just interested. But such occurrences always left him mystified. He knew he was not unattractive. He just felt so thoroughly married. He had been made to be married. To Joan. He felt safe in his life. Out of harm’s way. And there was nothing wrong with that.

  He may have spent all his political capital as breadwinner when he refused to move for that promotion. And it’s possible Joan was paying him back when she had that affair—if that’s what it was—with the guy in the silver Honda. He doesn’t know. He never will. It’s in the past, he reminds himself, shutting down the computer.

  *

  The cemetery gates always strike him as a bit pretentious—two big gothic wings wafting him in. But here he is, as usual. First of the month. A little later in the day than he would have liked. The dark comes down early, and they shut the place up at five.

  He almost didn’t make it out the door. That damned light-headedness again when he tried to get up out of his desk chair. It dropped him right back down with a whump. All he could do was sit and wait for the room to stop spinning. He thought about just staying home, leaving the visit till tomorrow or the next day. But no. That would be the start of something. Something he does not want to start.

  Sister was so sound asleep that he decided not to wake her for a second walk. She’s sleeping more and more these days. He supposes the time is coming. But not just yet. She can still get around. Still likes her food. And she’s a presence in the house. Sometimes he’ll lower his paper or look away from the TV and see her eyes upon him. He’ll wonder how long she has been quietly studying him, and why. Maybe she knows he’s all she’s got. Maybe she senses that he will one day decide she has lived long enough. Oh for God’s sake, Len, he can just hear Joan, she’s a dog. They don’t think beyond their next bowl of kibble.

  Joan’s grave is not far in, but it is up a bit of a rise. Len has to stop half way and catch his breath. When she died, there was actually a sale on cemetery plots and he got a two-for-one deal. He paid a little extra even so, because there was a bench facing where their headstones would be. At the time, he didn’t care all that much, but now he’s glad of a place to sit during these monthly visits.

  He leans on his cane and looks around at the acres of graves. Generations upon generations. Taking up land. Would the day ever come when the needs of the living shredded the last notion of what is sacred? He imagines graveyards being excavated for condominium foundations. Jaws of earth-movers prying up dry and not-so-dry bones. Shards of mahogany. Crisping bouquets. All of it loaded onto trucks trundling up out of the deepening pit, then taking it—

  “Hey, you got a light?”

  Where did he come from? A boy. Maybe fifteen. Wearing jeans and one of those hoodie things or whatever they’re called.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said. Do. You. Got. A light.”

  Rude young—“No. I haven’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Len says, stumping past. “I don’t smoke. And neither should you.” Honestly.

  The bench is just a few steps around a bend in the cemetery path. When he reaches it he grabs onto the armrest, braces with his cane, and sits gingerly. Even through his heavier coat, the seat is hard and cold.

  Joan’s headstone is a plain white marble tablet. Name and dates. No Beloved Wife of or any other sentiment. He did want to make the right decision. Searched his memory for any hint she might have given about preferring to be cremated. Except Joan didn’t hint, and she didn’t prefer. If she wanted something, she opened her mouth and—

  “You just out takin’ a walk or somethin’?”

  Damn. He didn’t hear the kid following him. Len tightens up on the handle of his cane. Draws a calming breath. “I’m visiting my late wife.” He nods toward Joan’s grave.

  “Oh yeah?” The boy sits down beside him. “How long she been dead?” His face is a pale oval, the eyes dark-lashed, the lips fleshy, curled in a smirk. There is a pink cluster of pimples on his chin.

  Len moves his left hand into his lap. He’s wearing his good watch—the one he got at retirement. And his wallet—cash and credit card—is in his lapel pocket. But he has his cane. One good crack across the bridge of the nose—

  Oh, calm down. The boy hasn’t done anything wrong. As a teacher, Len learned to focus on the question asked and filter out any attitude. It usually worked. “As you can see from the date on the stone, my wife passed away eight years ago,” he says firmly, then faces front.

  “What she die of?”

  Is he being baited? The way the young sometimes bait the old? He wants to say, You’ll be like me some day. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. Unless you die young in some damned fool way. Racing a car. Putting some garbage into your veins or up your nose or whatever your type does. Keeping his voice steady, he says, “It was an accident. She was hit crossing the street. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to be quiet.”

  “Sure. No problem. Quiet as you want.”

  Len tries to ignore the boy after that, but he must have a slight cold because his breath snuffles. He wants to focus the way he usually does, calling up memories of Joan. Just fifteen minutes or so of acknowledgement. It’s what he does. Once a month. He was her husband. She was his wife. All the difficulties and disappointments notwithstanding.

  Len sucks up all the integrity in the room. Did Joan ever actually say that? Or can he just imagine her saying it?

  No matter. Focus. Try. But his mind throws up a picture of how she—her body—must be now. Why didn’t he just go ahead and have her cremated? Scatter the ashes wherever? Except he wouldn’t have scattered her, would he? No, he’d have kept her in a box or an urn somewhere in the living room. Ridiculous. Superstitious. Still, he did want her to be in a specific place. That was another odd thought he had right after she died. At least now I’ll know wh
ere she is. What she’s—

  “You come here a lot?”

  Len sighs. “I come here once per month. For just a few minutes. Of quiet reflection.”

  “You and her married for long?”

  “Forty-eight years.”

  “Wow. All that time. Just you two. What’s that like?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Like, didn’t you get sick of each other?”

  Len says nothing, just looks steadily ahead at Joan’s grave, thinking he might as well leave but unwilling to let the boy force him out.

  “Like, didn’t you fight or nothin’? My folks, they fight all the time.”

  Maybe, Len thinks resignedly, this could be a teaching moment. “There are always tensions in a marriage,” he says. “Especially a long one. But you adjust to each other. And if there is a foundation of respect—”

  “You ever give her a little tap?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Just a swat now and then. Keep her in line.”

  What kind of home does this boy come from? “Absolutely not.” Then, quoting his father, “When a man raises his hand to a woman, he ceases to be a man.”

  “She pretty good, then?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “You get what you want? When you wanted it?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Or did you have to beg for it?” The boy’s adenoidal breath is almost in his ear. “Did you have to say, Pleease, Honey! Pleease! Pleease?”

  Len plants his cane. Pulls himself to his feet. Feels the blood drain sickeningly from his head. Lands back down. “Oooff!” One slat of the bench bruises his tailbone. His cane clatters to the ground beside him.

  “Hey! Geez. You all right?” The boy is crouched in front of him, peering into his face. Grinning. “You know what? You should put your head down. Between your knees. Yeah. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  And that is what Len does, because the boy puts his hands on his shoulders and pushes him down hard until he is bent double. “I can’t breathe!” he squeaks, and the pressure eases a bit.

  “Now, you just stay that way,” the boy says tenderly. “You hear me?” When Len does not respond, he presses down hard again.

  “Yes!” Len even nods—wags his head between his knees. He can see the end of his cane, where it fell. Could he reach it if—

  “Good. That’s good.” A pale hand picks the cane up. Pulls it out of his line of vision. He hears a whoosh of air. Another. Is the boy swinging his cane around? Revving up? Len braces for the impact. He’ll be found beaten to death in front of his wife’s grave. Because he always visits his wife, doesn’t he? Every bloody month. His wife with her prayers and her good works. His wife who cheated on him. Opened her legs. Took him for a bloody—

  Whump!

  He winces at the sound. Dares to look up. The boy raises the cane. Brings it down again. On Joan’s grave.

  Whump!

  “Bitch!”

  Whump!

  “Cunt!”

  Whump!

  Len jerks with every blow. Right. Wear yourself out. Take it out on her. Give it to her. Give it to her.

  The boy stops and stands, breathing heavily. Len quickly looks down again. Hears the sound of a zipper. A splashing. “Drink it, bitch!”

  Drink it, bitch.

  A clatter. Running footsteps. Getting fainter.

  After a long moment, Len looks up. There, a few feet in front of him on the path, is his cane. No sign of the boy. He listens. Hard. Nothing.

  Carefully, he half-rolls off the bench onto his knees. Feels cold gravel through the fabric of his pants. Crawls to his cane. Braces with it. Pulls himself to his feet. Hobbles to Joan’s grave and leans on the stone. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I’m sorry.” He is tired to death. He could lie down right here and now with Joan and fall asleep. But if he does that, Sister will die slowly inside the house of hunger and thirst. She won’t howl or bark at a window the way Brother would have. And even if she does, who will hear? No one comes to the door. There’s no mail delivery any more, just that bloody community box he has to walk to. He should have asked a neighbor to look in on him every other day or so. But that’s how it starts. The exchanged looks. The being talked about. Poor old Len …

  He’s getting his breath back. Patting the headstone now, saying, “All right then? All right.” He checks his watch. It’s not yet five. If he starts back now, he’ll make it to the gates before they lock them.

  Once he’s home, should he call the authorities? Report the boy? He did get a good look at him. But his mind veers from the thought of a young officer, perhaps even a woman, sitting in his living room and listening to his tale of what happened. What was done to him. And to Joan. Then asking questions. Forcing him to reveal more and more detail. It would be like having to describe a humiliating but deserved punishment.

  So the boy will get off scot-free. Maybe Len will even encounter him one day when he’s out walking Sister.

  Sister. She’ll be waking up. Wondering where he is. Making that worried little whine in her throat. He starts toward the gates. Is he actually hungry? What does he have in the house?

  He should start getting his groceries delivered. He hasn’t been eating well, because he can only carry one bag home at a time from the store and he doesn’t want to be seen trundling one of those old-lady bundle buggies. So yes. Delivery. He’ll set that up. Tomorrow. Nothing wrong with it, either. Not as if he’s getting Meals on bloody Wheels.

  And what was he thinking about this morning? Setting his breakfast things out on a tray the night before. At the other end of the table, facing the sink. He must have a tray somewhere. He’ll take a look tonight. Pick one up tomorrow from the hardware in town, if necessary.

  It’s all about preparation, he reminds himself, stumping down the hill. Catching sight of the gates.

  LATE BREAKING

  Jill used to like being interviewed. Once every other year or so, it was flattering. Now that it has become a daily occurrence, it just makes her tired. “So, Jill, tell me...” (No, she wants to say. I’m not going to tell you a damned thing more.) “Now, that’s interesting, Jill! Are you saying...” (I’m saying whatever I just said.)

  Her questioners bulge and pulse with energy. “In your novel, Jill, you actually...” (Yes, you annoying young thing. In my novel I actually depict two older people—older than you believe you yourself will ever be—fucking. Pawing each other. Slobbering all over each others’ parts.) “May I ask if the book is based on anyone you …” (May I ask if you have any idea how ridiculous that question is?)

  But Jill does not say that, or any of the other things she wants to say. Instead, she smiles charmingly at the interviewer who could be her child, or even her grandchild, and says, “Well, what else does a writer have besides her own experience? That’s not to rule out the power of the imagination, of course. True, I might take some episode from my own life as material. But then I work it. I change it. I fit it to the story at hand.” (Or sometimes I leave it raw and bloody, soaking into the page.)

  “Jill, can we just get back to something you said a moment ago …”

  She is starting to understand why people confess to crimes they have not committed. She read somewhere that the promise of a hot meal is enough to break some innocent suspects down. In her case, all it would take would be someone saying, “Jill, here’s the deal. If you will simply admit to the whole world that the parts of your novel in which the heroine grovels, pleads, and sacrifices the last shred of her self-respect on the altar of a thoroughly unworthy man are based on fact and that you yourself are the inspiration for that heroine, we’ll let you go back to your hotel room, raid the mini-bar and order room service.”

  The hotels
, Jill must admit, almost make up for the airport-­security lineups, the podiums she must approach without tripping or dropping her book, the audiences she can’t see through the glare of stage lights. For at the end of each day’s trials there is the hotel room that is hers yet not hers. Hers the comfort of the enormous, fresh-sheeted bed. Not hers the chore of making that bed in the morning. Hers the miraculous cleanliness and order that restore themselves in her absence. Not hers the job of fishing hairs out of the sink or replacing damp towels with fluffy and dry. Hers the magical mini-bar that grows back the parts of itself that she consumed the day before. And hers, best of all, the tiny bottles of shampoo, the elfin soaps, the doll-sized flasks of lotion and gel and ointment that reappear each day in the bathroom. She makes one set last her stay, hiding it in her sponge bag so the maid will put out fresh supplies she can take with her when she leaves. In her travels so far, she has collected six sets of Lilliputian toiletries: lavender in Halifax, eucalyptus in Montreal, vanilla in Toronto, lemon grass in Winnipeg, tea rose in Saskatoon. Here in Vancouver, she emerges out of the bathroom each morning smelling of mint. She shampoos with mint, scrubs her skin with mint, anoints herself all over with minty white goo. From time to time throughout the day, while she listens to one or another of the nominees read from their works, she will raise a wrist to her nose. She smells like a breath lozenge. An air freshener. An agent of sweetening and cleansing.

  *

  Jill Macklin is one of four authors nominated for the Olympia Featherstone Award For Fiction. For the past week and a half, they have been flying together across the country, always assigned to the same middle row of the plane, strapped in side by side like babies in car seats. After their first flight, it was tacitly agreed that Philip Phelps and Jill herself would be allowed to sit on the aisles, in deference to their aging bladders. The younger woman, Jaya Ghosh, usually gets up only once per flight, smiling an apology as she squeezes past their knees. The younger man, Jason Rayburn, never has to go, no matter how much he has to drink or how many hours he spends in the air.