Canary by Duane Swierczynski Page A

silence. I know Dad feels like shit about yelling at me, and I know he has a point with that crazy exit I made, but I’ve been through the worst night of my life and the outburst from my dad is one thing too many. I pay attention to the road, coming to full stops at every stop sign, accelerating as gently as possible after every light. I avoid Roosevelt Boulevard—which is crazy enough even on a good day. I am the perfect driver, following the letter of the law.
We pick up Marty, who’s still laughing about some shared joke with his friend. Dad and I try to fake it but we’re both still pissed and rattled and Marty notices it, too, so he lapses into confused silence. He wants to ask what’s wrong but knows better. There’s so much to do to get dinner ready, but I don’t want to deal with anything right now, so I go up to my room and slam the door and collapse on my bed, exactly where I should have been eight hours ago.
     
    Marty Holland’s mom is sort of buried in the basement.
    She thought burials were the most horrible thing ever and made Dad swear that, in the unlikely event of her death, her body would be cremated and not injected with chemicals and then locked in a box six feet below the surface of the earth. Dad would smile and deflect Mom’s death wish with statistics about how husbands usually died before their wives. But Dad turned out to be wrong.
    A month after the funeral her ashes had been spread near Coronado Island, one of her favorite places.
    What’s half-buried in the basement are Mom’s belongings, in a dozen plastic containers that have a harsh chemical smell. It clings to your hands even after a good washing or two. Dad couldn’t stomach the idea of throwing her stuff away, but he didn’t want to stare at it every day, either. So down into the family den/laundry room it went. The containers—purchased and packed by Dad in a frenzy one humid Sunday afternoon in early June—sat in the corner where a television and cable box might go.
    Marty started spending a lot of time down there after that. Cooler in the summer, sort of warm in the winter, with the space heater going. Dad leaves him alone, like he usually does. Sometimes he just needs to open a container and pull out one of his mom’s sweaters—she was always cold—just to make sure her scent is still there, and not overwhelmed by the plastic smell. He knows that every time he opens a container a little more of her disappears. But Marty can’t help himself. It’s like he has to reassure himself that she was real, after all.
    For the millionth time, he wishes she were here now.
    Not just because it’s Thanksgiving. But because Mom was always the one who explained things to him. Not the case with Dad … or, now, Sarie. Ask Dad a question, almost any question, and you’ll most likely hear a brush-off.
Don’t worry about it. Wasn’t talking to you, Marty. Nothing to do with you, Marty, don’t worry.
    Yeah. Don’t worry. Sure, Dad.
    Sarie used to be like Mom, the kind of older sister who didn’t (usually) think he was a jerk face and would take her time talking to him. Ever since she started college, though, she was acting more like Dad.
Don’t worry, don’t worry.
The constant refrain. Which is why Marty knows it’s useless to ask either one what happened between them this morning, because he would be told it was none of his business and not to worry about it. Something was clearly wrong, though. He’d have to figure it out for himself.
    He opens a container, reaches in, touches one of his mom’s old sweaters. Wishes for a moment, then tells himself to stop being such a baby.
     
    Wildey lives alone in a bad neighborhood.
    He used to date someone who lived in a much better neighborhood, and for a while he considered moving. They seemed to be on the same page right up until she turned to the kid page, and Wildey realized he had no choice but to close the book. For a while he tried to talk himself into it, but he knew himself