failed to develop the highly complex civilization of the bee or the ant.â
Seething quiet in the front seat almost all the way to Toronto. Her head against the window. Half her reflection looking back. I punch the seek button. Look for reliable radio signals to carry us through. Approach the city. Buildings rise and lanes crowd. Condos overlooking the 401. Backlit windows. A single guy watching a hockey game on a big screen TV. Bag of chips in his lap. Bottle of beer. Feet up on the coffee table. He sits in the sky as we pass.
Everybody on their way. Express and collector. Keep your distance. A two-car-length minimum. Exit for the 404, Exit for the 407. Donât get trapped by the QEW. Donât go to Hamilton. My right blinker. My right blinker again. The polite wave. Adjust to the pace. Small openings where someone will let you in. Tight margins. Sweat on the steering wheel.
Her hand comes gentle on my shoulder. Fingers pressing the back of my neck.
Youâre doing great, she says. A single, real smile. Once we get through this section, weâll be fine.
I touch her leg. Rub my hand against her jeans. Friction and warmth. The thin bone of her kneecap. Tendons holding it in place. We are moving over asphalt. 130 kilometers per hour. A used Toyota Tercel. More than 250,000 clicks on the odometer. Thin doors. Rust. All-season tires. No air bags. Baby-On-Board sign suction-cupped to the back window.
Guelph and Cambridge. Woodstock and London. Dark snow on the windshield. We run out of washer fluid and have to refill. A bottle of bright blue-40 glugging into the reservoir. Skull and crossbones. Symbols for explosion and corrosion. A phone number for poison control.
Then the long, long hypnotizing flat. Sleepy last sections. Chatham and Tilbury. Gas stations that were shut down five years ago. See the Bridge rising, the Renaissance Center like a mirage though we are still half an hour away.
We pull in three hours late. Tired, but home. The house is lit up. Christmas tree. Everyone waiting. My adult brothers and sisters, my parents. We move around each other in the living room. What we were and what we are.
The baby makes the rounds. First grandchild. New generation. Sleeps through her introduction.
Isnât she big?
And all the hair sheâs got.
The little fingernails. Look at the little fingernails.
Couldnât I just eat her up?
My mother puts her hand on the babyâs cheek.
She feels very hot to me. Do you think she feels hot?
Yeah. Sheâs been sick. Pretty bad. A high fever for two or three days.
Thatâs not good, she says to me. You need to be very, very careful with them when theyâre this small. Anything could have happened out there on the road.
My wifeâs breathing. Out hard through her nose. She slumps in a chair. Closes her eyes.
Lice killed thirty million people after World War I. Typhus. Jails and slums and soldiersâ barracks. Fever and stiffening joints. The rash, raw coughing, fast fall into delirium. The word typhus comes from the Greek for fog. A mist settling in your brain. Poor people first, then anybody forced to live too close to anybody else. Impossible to contain. How does it spread? A mystery at first. Some see a curse or a plague. Punishment for something done wrong. Absolutely inescapable once it entered your house. The chain of events. Your sisterâs dementia leading to your fatherâs fade. No small significances lost. The first moment you feel a little warmer than you did before. The first time you cough.
On TV. The same thing for weeks. So, so boring. A map of the world and a map of the country. Hot spots. Outbreaks. The global pandemic. Be afraid. A brand new bug. Unexpected mutation. Completely unforeseen. Only the elderly, people who lived through the Spanish Flu of 1917, will be able to fight it off. Antibodies they do not even know they have. The peak of the second wave. The approach of the third. Surgical masks and latex
Seething quiet in the front seat almost all the way to Toronto. Her head against the window. Half her reflection looking back. I punch the seek button. Look for reliable radio signals to carry us through. Approach the city. Buildings rise and lanes crowd. Condos overlooking the 401. Backlit windows. A single guy watching a hockey game on a big screen TV. Bag of chips in his lap. Bottle of beer. Feet up on the coffee table. He sits in the sky as we pass.
Everybody on their way. Express and collector. Keep your distance. A two-car-length minimum. Exit for the 404, Exit for the 407. Donât get trapped by the QEW. Donât go to Hamilton. My right blinker. My right blinker again. The polite wave. Adjust to the pace. Small openings where someone will let you in. Tight margins. Sweat on the steering wheel.
Her hand comes gentle on my shoulder. Fingers pressing the back of my neck.
Youâre doing great, she says. A single, real smile. Once we get through this section, weâll be fine.
I touch her leg. Rub my hand against her jeans. Friction and warmth. The thin bone of her kneecap. Tendons holding it in place. We are moving over asphalt. 130 kilometers per hour. A used Toyota Tercel. More than 250,000 clicks on the odometer. Thin doors. Rust. All-season tires. No air bags. Baby-On-Board sign suction-cupped to the back window.
Guelph and Cambridge. Woodstock and London. Dark snow on the windshield. We run out of washer fluid and have to refill. A bottle of bright blue-40 glugging into the reservoir. Skull and crossbones. Symbols for explosion and corrosion. A phone number for poison control.
Then the long, long hypnotizing flat. Sleepy last sections. Chatham and Tilbury. Gas stations that were shut down five years ago. See the Bridge rising, the Renaissance Center like a mirage though we are still half an hour away.
We pull in three hours late. Tired, but home. The house is lit up. Christmas tree. Everyone waiting. My adult brothers and sisters, my parents. We move around each other in the living room. What we were and what we are.
The baby makes the rounds. First grandchild. New generation. Sleeps through her introduction.
Isnât she big?
And all the hair sheâs got.
The little fingernails. Look at the little fingernails.
Couldnât I just eat her up?
My mother puts her hand on the babyâs cheek.
She feels very hot to me. Do you think she feels hot?
Yeah. Sheâs been sick. Pretty bad. A high fever for two or three days.
Thatâs not good, she says to me. You need to be very, very careful with them when theyâre this small. Anything could have happened out there on the road.
My wifeâs breathing. Out hard through her nose. She slumps in a chair. Closes her eyes.
Lice killed thirty million people after World War I. Typhus. Jails and slums and soldiersâ barracks. Fever and stiffening joints. The rash, raw coughing, fast fall into delirium. The word typhus comes from the Greek for fog. A mist settling in your brain. Poor people first, then anybody forced to live too close to anybody else. Impossible to contain. How does it spread? A mystery at first. Some see a curse or a plague. Punishment for something done wrong. Absolutely inescapable once it entered your house. The chain of events. Your sisterâs dementia leading to your fatherâs fade. No small significances lost. The first moment you feel a little warmer than you did before. The first time you cough.
On TV. The same thing for weeks. So, so boring. A map of the world and a map of the country. Hot spots. Outbreaks. The global pandemic. Be afraid. A brand new bug. Unexpected mutation. Completely unforeseen. Only the elderly, people who lived through the Spanish Flu of 1917, will be able to fight it off. Antibodies they do not even know they have. The peak of the second wave. The approach of the third. Surgical masks and latex
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