Morning

He woke up somewhere south of Calgary, coming slowly awake as his eyes focused on the Malibu’s shadow stretched 100 feet long, bouncing off golden chunks of dead grass and patches of snow. His neck hurt, his forehead was cold from being pressed against the window, his white shirt was twisted around his shoulders.

She was driving with her right wrist crooked over the top of the steering wheel, the other hand tapping her thigh, the noise from the Walkman headphones a small, tinny echo. The sun, behind her, lit the inside of her mother’s car, and when he moved he could see dust rise from the seats. He shifted, felt his forehead, sat a little straighter.

She pushed the headphones off.

“Glad you decided to join me.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“Passed out, more like. You were gone before we hit the Alberta border.”

He paused, looked around, saw mountain smudged grey in the distance, a dog or coyote running slowly along a ridge above a house.

“I should call somebody at the shop.”

She looked at him, the put the headphones back on and turned up the sound, but 10 miles later she pulled off at a Husky Truck Stop, bumping hard and fast off the shoulder and running up beside the cafe, the sun already higher.

“Wait a minute,” she said, when he started to get out. “Maybe we should sa goodbye here.”

“What do you mean.”

“Call somebody at the shop? And tell them what?”

“I don’t know, just that I’m not there.”

“They likely aren’t the brightest people in Melfort - though that wouldn’t be saying much - but I’m pretty sure they know you aren’t there. So what would you tell them?”

“I don’t know, I told you. Sorry, suppose, I left them in the lurch.”

“Look bucko, my father’s going to wake up with a house full of dirty dishes, a fridge full of casseroles he doesn’t want to eat and a low-grade hangover, and he’s going to find me gone with the dearly departed’s car.”

“I just want to let them. . .”

“Well, pick now. You’re going to let people know, or you’re going to do things, and only one of them involves me.”

He paused, but just for a second, but maybe one second can be too long.

“Let’s have some breakfast and get going. Lousiana’s not getting any closer.”

The air almost touched you, it was so clean, and the cold felt good in the few steps to the restaurant. He almost touched her, but they were in that strange time, lovers still too new to be familiar.

They ordered huge breakfasts, eggs, ham. potatoes, laughed at the truckers, until a large, greasy driver in an International cap asked if there was a problem and she had to claim he reminded her of her uncle. He held his breath.

She caught that, looked at him again, then made a quiet joke about the funeral and her inheritance turning out to be the car and him. The coffee was the best part of breakfast, not good coffee but still the best part.

She left him to wait for the bill, went to the bathroom, and he knew right away she wouldn’t be back, but he waited for 15 minutes anyway and never did look at where the car used to be.

Just a touch

He had to lean through the branches of the bush to kiss her goodbye. She was tight against the house, in the corner formed where the rust red clapboards came together, watching the swirl of children and men and women on the dirt-patched lawn from the shadows.

They’d met in the town, and he almost hadn’t recognized her after so many years. The faded brusied red dress, the grey, thin hair rising in beauty parlor curls. But there was something about the way she stood tbat caught him, her arms crossed tightly, shoulders up a little, wrinkling the brown skin at the base of her neck. He realized who when it was too late. She came over, asked where he’d been, admired the son, touched the daughter’s hair until she shyed away, bought them candies and insisted they come see her.

“You grandmother,” he’d told them in the car, bumping along the gravel road following her as it grew dark. “She wants us to visit.”

The house was strange. He remembered it, the dark, faded wood, the leaning porch, windows like dark eyes, patchy yard, overgrown roses, swing set. But he could never remember being inside - just the outside.
She was waiting, on the step, paper bag in each hand, pushing at the unlocked door. Small dark rooms illuminated only by the fading light coming in from the windows, crowded with furniture and layers of things - clothes, pictures in small frames, china, the odd half-empty glass.

Everywhere things, and he thought he could hear his father breathing heavily - up the stairs, in the next room - but couldn't be sure, thought he could even smell something of him in the air, but it may have been the dust.

She showed him photos, clothes, school papers, china, a chest with clippings, offered tea, moved too quickly, banged her hand sharply on the table. But she hardly noticed, although he could see a small white spot where the blood was driven from her skin. She asked questions, did he want tea, a drink, were the children all right outside, did he remember this picture, and he answered, yeses and nos and maybes until he felt out of breath, like the air in the house had long since been used up. He looked at a last crowded table, a last picture of people he didn t recognize in dark coats beside a big black Ford, and said he had to go.

And she followed him out, into the twilight, then slid along the wall, so he had to lean through the branches, the skin on his hand lightly torn, scratched flesh and few dots of blood, and he brushed his cheek against hers, felt the dry skin.



He and the children met his wife again in a park not far from the house, two huge, overhanging trees soaking up the light, smaller tress and brush crowding around the chearing, battered slides and swings and teeter totters and a round-about all scattered around the dirt and grass, looking tossed like forgotten toys.

The children played, quieter than usual, dragging their feet in the dirt as they twirled on the equipment, running, stopping, visible then invisible in the early night. He watched them dance with danger, smelled the cool of the evening moving in, shivered just a little, saw them swing too high, jump from the top of the slide to land on the gravel and dirt, spin too fast, his daughter's hair flying out as she hung straight out from the little merry-go-round, head dancing just above the dirt and glass and rocks, pink fingers locked around the chipped railing, no sound from her as she went faster and faster.

He sat off to the side, watching the children, telling her of the house and the things he'd seen.

Seeing only the flashes of the children's skin in the near-dark now, seeing only her eyes through the night, and then only when she looked towards him, which wasn't often.

Then he saw movement. A figure, on the path, moving towards the children, then past, crossing toward them.

"Your father, he's dead."

"Oh."

"It just happened now. It seemed very strange, and we all thought it was just a little bruise, but he's dead."

A woman brought the news, not one he recognized, a friend of his mother's probably, a little younger, but with the same kind of clothes - plain, colors faded to grey, though dark this time, hands held in front of her wrapped in some kind of sweater.
"Just a small bruise, almost a smudge, a thin blue line, just here," and she pointed to the soft skin just above the cheekbone and under the eye, close to the eye and the brain. "We thought he was just lying down, then we saw he was too still."

"It was a swing, just came up and touched him ever so lightly, and laid down the bruise, and killed him. No one was on it - it was just a swing."

He thought about the house and the small yard, could see his father lying in it, jeans too large, on his back, black leather shoes still shiny, his face still except for the thin blue bruise, less than two inches long.

The children still player, now the boy pushing the girl higher and higher in the swing, his hands flashing, her hair stretched out in the sky, dancing with the swing as it swooped up and down in the night.

No blood came

Daniel wondered if he could even get the coffin open.

He stood at the back of the room, sweating in a heavy herringbone suit, straight legs of cheap wool bunching against the backs of his knees, sweat trickling down his calf, his white shirt stuck to his back.

The parlour was cooler after the spring sun, but it smelled. Not like death, unless death smells like perfume, carpet cleaner and flowers. Six wooden folding chairs, one foolish row, and at the front a large dark coffin, rich brown wood with dark twisting veins, the top rising rounded like a old car hood. It looked too small for his brother.

“Could I be alone with him, for a few minutes.”

The funeral director, Mr. Holmes, was at Daniel’s elbow, and he leaned close until they almost touched shoulders.
“Are you sure I couldn’t be helpful?”

Daniel was early. It was just after 11 and the service wasn’t until 1. Mr. Holmes held his hands in front of him, one finger marked with a series of small scars, half-smiling like he knew a secret he couldn’t share, a short man in a black suit that cost as much as the coffin.

“I’d really like some time alone with my brother, just a few minutes. Everything has happened so fast, and I’m afraid he’ll be gone and I won’t have . . . “

Half-sentences and silences were their language.

Holmes could spot the problem bereaved, the family members who would sprawl across the coffin sobbing, the brothers who would stumble into recriminations and blows before the service ended. But this young man looked all right, pale and sweaty, too thin, but not a problem.

“Yes, of course. I’ll just be in my office. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Daniel walked to the front of the room, the carpet soaking up his steps, heard the noise of the cars and trucks heading into the city as the door closed, mingled with the sound of blood rushing in his head.

His fingertips touched the wood, cooler than the rest of the room, and he leaned his forehead against it. The lid was one long piece, not the two halves he’d seen in films. His fingers slid under the rim and he pulled.

His brother, in an old suit too small for him, his hair arranged in a spray around his head even though no one was supposed to see it. He’d been afraid, but he wasn’t sure what of - some stranger, a wax dummy, some final cheat.

No tears. He reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a jagged shape, a long nail his brother had twisted with pliers, making a loop that always sat on the pavement or ground so the point would pierce a car tire or foot, a toy from the Anarchist’s Cookbook.

He rolled it in his palm, felt the smoothly looped bottom, the metal stretched, the tight turn and half-twist, the jagged point. Made a fist, felt the point bite into his palm.

He reached with his right hand, felt his brother’s cheek, dry and cold and dusty with make-up and powder, the scratch of stubble the only real thing.

Daniel leaned in, his lips almost brushing his brother’s cheek. He could see the thin dark red line floating in blue around his brother’s throat, almost a smudge beneath the thicker make-up, some artist’s trick. He took the nail, traced the line lightly, then drew a new one harder just below it, scratching the make-up, almost tearing the skin, no blood to draw.

“You cheat. You fucking cheat.”

“What am I supposed to do now. You little snot, are you the only one you ever think about. I’m stuck now. We’re all stuck.”

His voice was quiet. He stood slightly, leaned on the edge of the coffin, then pressed the nail against John’s left eyelid, saw a little dot of white.

“Now it’s my job to be here. Now I can’t go away. Why the hell do you think you’re the one with the right to do this?”

He pressed harder, until the skin broke. No blood came.

Daniel stopped, reached out and cupped his brother’s head in his hand, felt the hair hard with spray, and lifted it gently from the satin pillow, not feeling the stiffness he expected. He centered the looped nail carefully on the pillow, and slowly lowered his brother’s head.