order to seize all his assets, the house and its contents, both vehicles, a speedboat he had docked in the Mill Bay Marina, all of which he’d agreed to put a lien on at the time of borrowing, as collateral for what was supposed to be his final consolidating loan. He was, he realized now, sitting in an SUV that technically he no longer owned, while Connie, at this very moment, was sleeping in a bed that wasn’t hers, under aroof that no longer protected her, dreaming of a future for her children she would no longer be able to afford.
Harlan accelerated down a stretch of highway so familiar he had it memorized. How awful it was to have a life that finally resembled what his father’s life had been – recklessly irresponsible. What memories he had of him, they’d been surfacing more and more of late, and less damningly so than ever before. He thought about how, when he was eleven years old, his father just up and left him to fend for himself in an apartment full of women, and while he never grew accustomed to the painful longing in his heart, he did over time forget the cause of it. Besides, the women in his life had long ago cornered the market on displays of emotion and expected him to be strong, not needy, but to show manly composure, even offer assistance.
His mother was so reliant. She started helping herself to his money when he was just a boy. At the age of twelve, he got a paper route. One evening, at the end of his first month, he left the apartment – with his shiny new hole-punch and a stack of customer cards held together by a big silver ring – and went to collect payment. He met the grumpy, fat housewives and the sweet young mothers, and found out who had dogs and whose house smelled bad and what people ate for dinner. When he got home and tallied it all up, he’d made forty-seven dollars, including tips. His first earnings! He ran into his mother’s bedroom and waved the bills in the air.
Let me see that, his mother said, transferring the cigarette to her mouth and holding out her hand. Harlan gave her the money and she said, Boy, you must be the smartest kid on the block, look at all this dough. Am I ever lucky or what? She kept twenty and handed him the rest.
What? she asked with her chin, tucking the bill into the bosom of her bright yellow nightgown, between soft paperybreasts that were, when his mother hugged him, the source of either delirious comfort or smothering panic. She rolled over onto her other side like a huge caterpillar and resumed her reading. A magic beanstalk of smoke tendrilled up from her hip. The ceiling was beginning to turn yellow. He could still see her now, clutching one of her thick, corner-store paperbacks, with the black-and-crimson covers, embossed with gold lettering – a woman in a scarlet bodice, holding on to some long-haired, bare-chested pirate, on top of a windswept cliff somewhere in the Caribbean, a plume of black smoke rising from the burning topsails of a full-rigged ship on the horizon.
Like his wife, Harlan’s mother always feared the worst, but she had none of Connie’s good intentions or energetic willfulness. Misery is fond of company, and the bitterness Harlan’s mother felt at her own failed wish for love in the dancehalls of the Okanagan Valley resurfaced as the implied wish that everyone else in her life should fail as well.
There were tears on his cheeks. Harlan was crying again and this annoyed him no end. He flicked them off with a finger. How many times had he cried today? He couldn’t remember, but it was a lot. When he cried as a boy, his sisters made fun of him. They hugged him too, lavishly, almost sexually – they were very expressive, very indulgent – but not before making him feel like a sissy. Shame on you for crying, Harley. Have you ever seen a boy cry like this, Jodes?
No, and if I did, I’d kick him where it counts.
They laughed into their cans of root beer and rye. Everything was a joke to them. They made him feel
Harlan accelerated down a stretch of highway so familiar he had it memorized. How awful it was to have a life that finally resembled what his father’s life had been – recklessly irresponsible. What memories he had of him, they’d been surfacing more and more of late, and less damningly so than ever before. He thought about how, when he was eleven years old, his father just up and left him to fend for himself in an apartment full of women, and while he never grew accustomed to the painful longing in his heart, he did over time forget the cause of it. Besides, the women in his life had long ago cornered the market on displays of emotion and expected him to be strong, not needy, but to show manly composure, even offer assistance.
His mother was so reliant. She started helping herself to his money when he was just a boy. At the age of twelve, he got a paper route. One evening, at the end of his first month, he left the apartment – with his shiny new hole-punch and a stack of customer cards held together by a big silver ring – and went to collect payment. He met the grumpy, fat housewives and the sweet young mothers, and found out who had dogs and whose house smelled bad and what people ate for dinner. When he got home and tallied it all up, he’d made forty-seven dollars, including tips. His first earnings! He ran into his mother’s bedroom and waved the bills in the air.
Let me see that, his mother said, transferring the cigarette to her mouth and holding out her hand. Harlan gave her the money and she said, Boy, you must be the smartest kid on the block, look at all this dough. Am I ever lucky or what? She kept twenty and handed him the rest.
What? she asked with her chin, tucking the bill into the bosom of her bright yellow nightgown, between soft paperybreasts that were, when his mother hugged him, the source of either delirious comfort or smothering panic. She rolled over onto her other side like a huge caterpillar and resumed her reading. A magic beanstalk of smoke tendrilled up from her hip. The ceiling was beginning to turn yellow. He could still see her now, clutching one of her thick, corner-store paperbacks, with the black-and-crimson covers, embossed with gold lettering – a woman in a scarlet bodice, holding on to some long-haired, bare-chested pirate, on top of a windswept cliff somewhere in the Caribbean, a plume of black smoke rising from the burning topsails of a full-rigged ship on the horizon.
Like his wife, Harlan’s mother always feared the worst, but she had none of Connie’s good intentions or energetic willfulness. Misery is fond of company, and the bitterness Harlan’s mother felt at her own failed wish for love in the dancehalls of the Okanagan Valley resurfaced as the implied wish that everyone else in her life should fail as well.
There were tears on his cheeks. Harlan was crying again and this annoyed him no end. He flicked them off with a finger. How many times had he cried today? He couldn’t remember, but it was a lot. When he cried as a boy, his sisters made fun of him. They hugged him too, lavishly, almost sexually – they were very expressive, very indulgent – but not before making him feel like a sissy. Shame on you for crying, Harley. Have you ever seen a boy cry like this, Jodes?
No, and if I did, I’d kick him where it counts.
They laughed into their cans of root beer and rye. Everything was a joke to them. They made him feel
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