Algoma by Dani Couture Page A

fit or style, only function, she had discovered that old silk scarves were the perfect way to cinch oversized shirts and dresses to her thin frame. If there was even a slight wind, Algoma was a tornado of fabric and scarves. Dogs barked, children cried.
    Unlike her, Algoma’s family had strict clothing requirements. While they would eat anything, and regularly did, they would not wear just anything. Even the boys wouldn’t share the same clothes.
    For Gaetan everything had to be one hundred percent cotton: “I need to breathe.”
    Leo had required all pants be long enough to roll: “I hate getting wet.”
    And now Ferd would only wear his brother’s clothing: “Why shouldn’t I?” His last teacher, the one who had also taught Leo, had been disturbed by the trend and prayed for the moment when he would outgrow the clothes. It’d been like teaching long division to a ghost.
    It was dark by the time Algoma arrived home, a low moon visible through the picket fence of trees that lined the street. Looking through the windshield, she’d momentarily mistaken the moon for a streetlamp. She pulled into the driveway, careful to leave enough room between the car and the hedge so she could get out. The lights on the main floor were out, which meant that either no one was home, or someone wanted people to think there was no one home. She got out of the car and fumbled with her house key in the lock. She’d asked Gaetan two times in the last week to replace the burnt out light over the side door, but it remained dead in the socket.
    “Use the front door,” he’d said.
    “It’s taped up for winter.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    Inside, Algoma let her purse slide from her shoulder down to the stiff bristles of the welcome mat. She kicked her boots off, draped her coat over the banister, and tossed her keys into the empty iron birdbath she’d put beside the door specifically for that purpose.
    She heard a splash. What now, she thought, but already knew.
    The birdbath was filled to its scalloped brim with water. A paper boat floated on the small tap-water lake. She plucked the pulpy ship and stuffed it, still wet, into her skirt pocket. At least he was getting creative.
    Gaetan was at work and Ferd was likely writing more notes in the basement. She looked down the stairs at the basement door. It was shut, a thin strip of light at the bottom. She thought about confronting Ferd with the latest note, but didn’t. He’d gone through enough in the past year. She hadn’t seen his breaking point yet, and didn’t want to. She walked upstairs to the kitchen.
    “I’m home,” she called out.
    “Okay,” Ferd yelled up from the basement. He sounded distracted.
    The evening stretched out before Algoma. She willed herself to ignore the breakfast dishes stacked in the sink, the hardened gobs of jam and peanut butter. She made herself a toasted tomato sandwich for dinner and pulled out her favourite deck of cards. The cards were well used, the edge so frayed, they were as soft as thumb-worn cotton. One of her sisters had given her the pack after returning from a trip to Las Vegas five yeas ago. “For luck,” Steel had said. Casino cast-offs with a hole in the middle of each card. She held up the ace of hearts and looked through the punched hole, her world further reduced.
    Halfway into her game, the phone rang. Algoma ignored it and focused on her cards. The answering machine picked up and she could hear Cen’s voice. She could wait, Algoma thought, and flipped over another card.
    After Leo died, her sisters had called and dropped by unannounced with such regularity she’d wondered if they had created a schedule. It was a rare day that passed without a call or visit from two of her six sisters. They almost always arrived in pairs—twin with twin. To have one over was to have both over. While she longed for solitude, she was grateful for the heavy casseroles they stacked in her fridge and freezers. The casseroles—layered beds of