open-mouthed. What would happen then? But it wouldn’t, for he was in charge. The Overseer. Maintaining control. Ensuring that everyone behaved.
He couldn’t get past the kitchen, where Sharon rested, unaware of her surroundings. But at the door, he could call her name, “Sharon,” the snivelling outsider who spoke to strangers, telling tales out of turn. What right did she have to do that?
“Sharon, Sharon,” he said softly, for she could close her eyes but not her ears. “What kind of mother are you? Always too tired. What kind of wife? All the burden is on your husband. He works while you are a waste of space. Filling cupboards with rags and scraps, spending his money. Wasting time and money in therapy, imagining things. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you. How long do you think that’s going to last? Then you’ll have nowhere to go and nobody will want you.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
E very nation has made a pattern of the stars, learning their positions to guide a person travelling, telling tales about the constellations to help memory along. The same group of stars outlined an emperor’s chariot in old China, a plough in Britain, a bear among the North American tribes.
In ancient Rome, the story was told like this. There was a huntress, a woman named Callisto. An attendant of the goddess of the hunt, Callisto was a virgin, a necessary condition to be among the goddess’s favourites. Unfortunately the king of the gods, Jupiter, desired Callisto, even if she didn’t desire him. To gain her trust, he disguised himself as the goddess. When he opened his arms and pulled her into a hug, Callisto was pleased to be noticed until she couldn’t extract herself. Only then did she discover who had hold of her, as he reverted to his true shape and raped her.
Some months afterward, seeing Callisto bathe in a creek—pregnant and ruined—the goddess had no sympathy. As punishment, she turned Callisto into a bear, who soon gave birth to a son, Arcas. When the boy was old enough tohunt, he came across a bear in the woods. Not knowing it was his mother, he raised his arm to throw a spear at it. But the king of the gods, believing himself more merciful than the goddess, intervened. He turned Arcas into a bear cub and then put mother and son in the sky as constellations so they might be together always, calling them Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
At the tip of little bear’s tail, the North Star shone over Crookshank’s Lane. A couple of cats howled and hissed, fighting in a yard. On the sidewalk, a redhead in jeans and a sweater was pulling a wagon home from Eleanor’s house, while inside that head—imperceptible to any passerby—a conversation took place.
What’s going on in that house? Forget it, none of our business. If it’s not our business, what is? The mummy cut Cathy’s sister. Bad mummy. No, hon, you don’t understand. The sister was gone and her mom was saving the baby. We should’ve done something before, then maybe there wouldn’t be a funeral. Don’t go off like that. You’re thinking of our crap, getting triggered. I am not
.
As they argued, one of them came forward. She slipped out as she always did when the situation required it, pausing only a moment to get her bearings, gripping the handle of the wagon, her feet on the ground, the cool air on her face. Her head tilted back, she could spot the Big Dipper even in this pallid night sky polluted by circling beams of light from the great towers by the lake. She wished to know how stars were made, where they began, where they would end. She liked looking at the stars, at their distance and indifferent shining. She had no given name. But she called herself Callisto, after the girl who became the bear in the sky. And soshe walked back to the house on Ontario Street, doing what she had always done, waiting out the darkness.
At last the day was ending. She glanced in at Josh, who was in his room, texting his friends or playing a game on his phone. He was back
He couldn’t get past the kitchen, where Sharon rested, unaware of her surroundings. But at the door, he could call her name, “Sharon,” the snivelling outsider who spoke to strangers, telling tales out of turn. What right did she have to do that?
“Sharon, Sharon,” he said softly, for she could close her eyes but not her ears. “What kind of mother are you? Always too tired. What kind of wife? All the burden is on your husband. He works while you are a waste of space. Filling cupboards with rags and scraps, spending his money. Wasting time and money in therapy, imagining things. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you. How long do you think that’s going to last? Then you’ll have nowhere to go and nobody will want you.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
E very nation has made a pattern of the stars, learning their positions to guide a person travelling, telling tales about the constellations to help memory along. The same group of stars outlined an emperor’s chariot in old China, a plough in Britain, a bear among the North American tribes.
In ancient Rome, the story was told like this. There was a huntress, a woman named Callisto. An attendant of the goddess of the hunt, Callisto was a virgin, a necessary condition to be among the goddess’s favourites. Unfortunately the king of the gods, Jupiter, desired Callisto, even if she didn’t desire him. To gain her trust, he disguised himself as the goddess. When he opened his arms and pulled her into a hug, Callisto was pleased to be noticed until she couldn’t extract herself. Only then did she discover who had hold of her, as he reverted to his true shape and raped her.
Some months afterward, seeing Callisto bathe in a creek—pregnant and ruined—the goddess had no sympathy. As punishment, she turned Callisto into a bear, who soon gave birth to a son, Arcas. When the boy was old enough tohunt, he came across a bear in the woods. Not knowing it was his mother, he raised his arm to throw a spear at it. But the king of the gods, believing himself more merciful than the goddess, intervened. He turned Arcas into a bear cub and then put mother and son in the sky as constellations so they might be together always, calling them Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
At the tip of little bear’s tail, the North Star shone over Crookshank’s Lane. A couple of cats howled and hissed, fighting in a yard. On the sidewalk, a redhead in jeans and a sweater was pulling a wagon home from Eleanor’s house, while inside that head—imperceptible to any passerby—a conversation took place.
What’s going on in that house? Forget it, none of our business. If it’s not our business, what is? The mummy cut Cathy’s sister. Bad mummy. No, hon, you don’t understand. The sister was gone and her mom was saving the baby. We should’ve done something before, then maybe there wouldn’t be a funeral. Don’t go off like that. You’re thinking of our crap, getting triggered. I am not
.
As they argued, one of them came forward. She slipped out as she always did when the situation required it, pausing only a moment to get her bearings, gripping the handle of the wagon, her feet on the ground, the cool air on her face. Her head tilted back, she could spot the Big Dipper even in this pallid night sky polluted by circling beams of light from the great towers by the lake. She wished to know how stars were made, where they began, where they would end. She liked looking at the stars, at their distance and indifferent shining. She had no given name. But she called herself Callisto, after the girl who became the bear in the sky. And soshe walked back to the house on Ontario Street, doing what she had always done, waiting out the darkness.
At last the day was ending. She glanced in at Josh, who was in his room, texting his friends or playing a game on his phone. He was back
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