tags, matchbooks (who still uses those?), iPhone cases, napkins, swags of ribbon. Among the exhibitors was Olivia’s Greetings. Each card bore her printed signature, the handwriting legible if not distinctive. So many festivities to grace each month and year, so many special birthdays.
On the way to his nap, he remembered that his parents, especially his mother, had been very fond of Louisa.
N
“ Oh Joyce, you look well!” Olivia came in . “Your place is exactly how I remember it!”
“Why wouldn’t it be? There’s no money to renovate.”
“For you.”
Joyce took the blue irises. “You want coffee or something?”
The two women gazed at Stanley on the living room sofa. Silent, the Weather Channel showed a blizzard moving from the American Midwest towards the eastern seaboard, as far north as Nova Scotia.
Joyce went over to turn off the TV. “Sometimes that does it. Sit up, son.” He stirred, releasing unwashed-body odour, stretched and closed his eyes.
His mother returned to the kitchen area.
“So much like Alan, amazing!”
“Stanley’s father never liked hearing that. Made him feel quote invisible.” Joyce shook instant into mugs, touched the kettle, made an It’ll do face, poured. “Powdered’s here. Sugar.”
With her drink, Olivia moved towards Stanley.
Joyce found an old mayo jar and ran water. As she stuffed the irises in, one fell. She bent to retrieve it. Deep in each petal’s throat ran an irregular golden streak.
A knock at the door.
“Always something.” Joyce went. “Oh no, not again!”
Some minutes later she walked back into the apartment saying, “Some people never learn. They get told and told but it doesn’t sink in.”
Murmurs came from the sofa, then Stanley laughed.
Joyce reached the living room area just as Olivia, giggling, set a pile of DVDs on Stanley’s stomach. He started reading the cover copy on one as Joyce grabbed another.
“Cartoons, little girls, what the hell, Olivia? D’you think time stands still?”
“Miyazaki, Joyce! Lovely stories. The animals only look scary? And all the kids get brave.”
Reading, grinning, Stanley rose. He snatched the DVD from his mother and went to his room. Joyce took a few steps after him, stopped.
When she turned, Olivia was gathering up her things.
“I’d better go? Thank you, Joyce.” She put her coffee mug on the kitchen counter. It was empty, her hostess saw, except for some milky goo at the bottom.
To watch Olivia disappear, Joyce picked up the irises again and carried them over to the window, where she set the jar on the sill.
At first the sister-in-law moved slowly along the sidewalk, several times raising her face to feel the raindrops. Then she speeded up, but not to the corner where the taxis shot by in yellow blurts. Instead she darted under the red awning of a restaurant, Italian, fancy, newly opened.
Joyce hesitated.
Hesitated.
Thrashed into her old winter coat and left the apartment.
N
Ronald became aware of Sadie in the living room. Not napping. Slobbering. At her crate, he knelt to peer and feel inside.
Grrr.
His hand met Olivia’s glove. Her favour was damp, the leather pocked by teeth. He held on to it, held against Sadie’s pull. Growling again, the dog let go and withdrew to the rear of her private space, where she lay down with her back to him.
Ronald too lay down, curled on the silk carpet purchased in Istanbul on his last sabbatical.
Why had he never invited Joyce out for a really good Italian dinner? He held his knees and tried to control his breathing, urgent, wildish. Was Harris still extant? Did Stanley ever see his dad? Why had Ronald himself so rarely visited his own (demented) father?
Olivia had sent the old man cards, which he saved. After his death, Joyce got cross because their mother wouldn’t throw them out right away. But now they weren’t children any more, not rivalrous children to say Serve you right when a playmate tears her knee, when a
On the way to his nap, he remembered that his parents, especially his mother, had been very fond of Louisa.
N
“ Oh Joyce, you look well!” Olivia came in . “Your place is exactly how I remember it!”
“Why wouldn’t it be? There’s no money to renovate.”
“For you.”
Joyce took the blue irises. “You want coffee or something?”
The two women gazed at Stanley on the living room sofa. Silent, the Weather Channel showed a blizzard moving from the American Midwest towards the eastern seaboard, as far north as Nova Scotia.
Joyce went over to turn off the TV. “Sometimes that does it. Sit up, son.” He stirred, releasing unwashed-body odour, stretched and closed his eyes.
His mother returned to the kitchen area.
“So much like Alan, amazing!”
“Stanley’s father never liked hearing that. Made him feel quote invisible.” Joyce shook instant into mugs, touched the kettle, made an It’ll do face, poured. “Powdered’s here. Sugar.”
With her drink, Olivia moved towards Stanley.
Joyce found an old mayo jar and ran water. As she stuffed the irises in, one fell. She bent to retrieve it. Deep in each petal’s throat ran an irregular golden streak.
A knock at the door.
“Always something.” Joyce went. “Oh no, not again!”
Some minutes later she walked back into the apartment saying, “Some people never learn. They get told and told but it doesn’t sink in.”
Murmurs came from the sofa, then Stanley laughed.
Joyce reached the living room area just as Olivia, giggling, set a pile of DVDs on Stanley’s stomach. He started reading the cover copy on one as Joyce grabbed another.
“Cartoons, little girls, what the hell, Olivia? D’you think time stands still?”
“Miyazaki, Joyce! Lovely stories. The animals only look scary? And all the kids get brave.”
Reading, grinning, Stanley rose. He snatched the DVD from his mother and went to his room. Joyce took a few steps after him, stopped.
When she turned, Olivia was gathering up her things.
“I’d better go? Thank you, Joyce.” She put her coffee mug on the kitchen counter. It was empty, her hostess saw, except for some milky goo at the bottom.
To watch Olivia disappear, Joyce picked up the irises again and carried them over to the window, where she set the jar on the sill.
At first the sister-in-law moved slowly along the sidewalk, several times raising her face to feel the raindrops. Then she speeded up, but not to the corner where the taxis shot by in yellow blurts. Instead she darted under the red awning of a restaurant, Italian, fancy, newly opened.
Joyce hesitated.
Hesitated.
Thrashed into her old winter coat and left the apartment.
N
Ronald became aware of Sadie in the living room. Not napping. Slobbering. At her crate, he knelt to peer and feel inside.
Grrr.
His hand met Olivia’s glove. Her favour was damp, the leather pocked by teeth. He held on to it, held against Sadie’s pull. Growling again, the dog let go and withdrew to the rear of her private space, where she lay down with her back to him.
Ronald too lay down, curled on the silk carpet purchased in Istanbul on his last sabbatical.
Why had he never invited Joyce out for a really good Italian dinner? He held his knees and tried to control his breathing, urgent, wildish. Was Harris still extant? Did Stanley ever see his dad? Why had Ronald himself so rarely visited his own (demented) father?
Olivia had sent the old man cards, which he saved. After his death, Joyce got cross because their mother wouldn’t throw them out right away. But now they weren’t children any more, not rivalrous children to say Serve you right when a playmate tears her knee, when a
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