The Knife Sharpener's Bell by Rhea Tregebov

dinner?” He’s trying to look William Spratt in the eye, but Spratt’s bent over another sheet of paper.
    â€œThank you,” he says, head down, “but I’ve already got an invitation.”
    Avram jams his fists in his pockets, looks down at his shoes and then up again. “Are you sure?”
    Spratt looks up from the paper, looks directly into Avram’s face.
    â€œThank you so much. Perhaps tomorrow?”
    â€œTomorrow would be fine.”
    Avram stands in the doorway for a minute, then goes downstairs.
    The next day Spratt is gone.
    â€œYou’re worrying for nothing,” Anne says. “He’s hiding somewhere. It was in the papers; he was ashamed.”
    â€œNobody knew him but us!” Avram answers. “Why should he be ashamed? He said he was coming for dinner . . .”
    â€œHe owed rent on the room,” Anne says. “Our landlady told me. Almost two months already. She was going to throw him out, but he’s such a nice quiet type. He kept trying to pay, a dollar here, a dollar there.” She touches Avram’s shoulder. “He was ashamed; he owed money. He ran away. Tomorrow’s Sunday. Take the children to the beach for the afternoon. You need a rest. I’ll mind the store. I’m not interested in swimming. Go. Take the Moonlight Special home. Listen to me.”
    â€œI’m going to visit Joseph,” Avram says. “I’m going to spend tomorrow with Joseph.”
    She stands up and walks to the bedroom.
    When Avram comes home Sunday evening, Anne won’t talk to him. Monday it’s busy. The Relief money is in and customers come into the delicatessen to pay something of what they owe. Anne still isn’t talking; she keeps herself busy in the kitchen.
    Avram puts two cheese blintzes on a plate and takes it out back, where he might be able to catch a breeze. He opens the paper.
Lux soap, 7¢ a bar. Jobless Conference Held in Edmonton. Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle.
    Unidentified Man Found Floating in Red River. Approximately forty years old, 130 pounds, five feet, ten inches. Dark grey suit, white shirt, black shoes
.
    He puts the paper down, picks it up. Farmers’ Army Gathers in Ottawa. Flit Kills Mosquitoes. Whose Problem Is It? Demoralizing dole-supported idleness. And the Society page: Printed Voile Frocks. White Softee Hats. Paris Falls for Five O’Clock Teas. Society. He puts his head down on the paper, the cool newsprint against his cheek, the words pressing into him, the lies.
    Hard times, hard winter. But walking down the street in Winnipeg, I don’t think,
Winnipeg
, don’t set myself in a particular place because in my life there is only one place,
here
. Five o’clock and it’s already dark, the sky gone from royal blue to a velvety purple to black and the snow so white it seems to glow. Yesterday there was just a bit of snow and the snowbanks are still white, new with it. No wind tonight, so there’s an extra stillness added onto the layer of stillness the snow seems to give.
    A car is hunched at the traffic light and someone’s inside, the person inside thinking his own thoughts just the way I’m thinking mine. We’re each alone, looking out from behind our faces, seeing just the edges of cheek, nose, ridge of skin around the eyes, a kind of wavering shadow if I try to look down at my own face, but I don’t like doing that, it’s too scary. Though I do sometimes like the feeling of being alone, especially outside like this on the dark, familiar streets, the cold air against my face so that I feel the edges of myself, my skin, know where I end.
    Winnipeg.
Are there really other places? In the middle ofwinter, in Winnipeg, it doesn’t seem there are even other seasons. In school I’ve learned about the tropics – Tropic of Cancer, Tropic of Capricorn – but they sound frightening, not real: beasts, diseases. My school books say that in other