Natural Order by Brian Francis Page A

Freddy.”
    “Keep an eye out for the limousine,” she said and turned her shopping cart to leave.
    Since then, I haven’t come across a single picture of Freddy or a mention of his name in any of the magazines. But that doesn’t stop me from buying and hiding them.
    Sometimes, when the weather is nice, I’ll sit out on the front porch and watch for the flash of white tearing down the street. Ridiculous, I know. Mrs. Pender doesn’t live anywhere near us.
    From where I sit, I can see John’s school. The sight of those yellow bricks reassures me.
    He’s in there right now , I think. Safe. Contained.
    When I pick John up from school today, he passes me an envelope. There’s a clown on it. Balloons. Another birthday party invitation.
    “Who’s Benjamin?” I ask.
    “He’s in my class,” John says.
    “Are you friends with him?” I think parents spread the net too wide with these invitations. It’s all for show. They’re setting their children up for disappointment later in life. Still, I shouldn’t complain. Better too many invitations than none at all.
    John shrugs and grips my hand tighter. I hope, when he’s older, he remembers our walks home. I hope he remembers the feeling of my hand and the pebbled sidewalks and the smell of early summer. The party is Saturday afternoon. Today is Thursday. Is it too much trouble to ask for some advance notice?
    “We’ll have to get Benjamin a present tonight,” I say. “Remember we’re going to Aunt Helen’s for dinner tomorrow.”
    “I don’t want to go there,” John says. “I don’t like Mark.”
    “Now John …”
    “Marianne is bossy. And Uncle Dickie looks funny.”
    What am I going to do with this boy? He’s going to give me such a run in this life.
    “It’s not nice to talk about your relatives that way,” I remind him. He looks up, scrutinizing my face, gauging my sincerity.
    Charlie gets home from work shortly after six. He’s on days this week. Twelve hours, from six to six, then he’s off for three days and back for three nights. He sits down at the table in his beige work shirt with matching beige pants. Sometimes, when he’s coming home from a night shift, I’ll meet him in the kitchen wearing my short purple nightie. We’ll sneak down to the laundry room or the unfinished basement, the smell of crude oil and night air still on his skin. I love him desperately in those moments, this abandoned young boy with a dream. I can almost believe what he says. That everything does work out for the best.
    I take his dinner plate from the oven and set it on the table in front of him. Charlie won’t eat a vegetable to save his life. Everything he puts in his mouth is either white or brown. John and I have already eaten. It’s better when it’s just the two of us. John loves vegetables. His favourite is carrot medallions. I let him peel them.
    “I have to go to Woolworth’s,” I say to Charlie. “John’s been invited to a birthday party on Saturday. You can come if you want. To the store, I mean.” I know he won’t, so I feel safe putting it out there.
    “You go ahead,” Charlie says around a mouthful of meat loaf. “Don’t spend too much. I need to get the car fixed.”
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    “I don’t know. That’s why I’m taking it in.”
    “Is it safe to drive?”
    “So long as you don’t use the brakes.”
    I swat him with my tea towel. “Don’t joke about things like that. You know I’m a nervous driver.”
    “I need some socks. Wool ones.”
    “I’ll pick some up.”
    The store isn’t busy. We pass through the empty aisles and when we come to the perfume section, I almost stop. I’m desperate for some kind of indulgence these days. I saw a dress in the window of Purdy’s on the weekend and just about cried. It was dark blue with a lace collar. I used to have a dress just like that, although I have no idea what happened to it. I have a hard time connecting with my younger self. My teenage years seem like