observation that if Sextus wasn’t such an asshole, she’d still be with him.
The cat stood just inside the door, bushy tail straight out behind him, and yowled accusingly. But by the time she was removing her second boot, he was making friendly rumbling sounds and tight figure eights around her ankles. She could feelthe pungency of the litter box in her eyes but went straight to the sink and filled the cat’s metal drinking bowl with water. She found the cans of cat food neatly stacked in the usual cupboard. Sorley was on the counter in a bound and eating even as she spooned the food into his dish, so she left him there and turned her attention to the soggy litter box. When that was done, she poured a Scotch and sat.
JC’s place was a reno from the late seventies, gutted out, dry-walled and painted white. It was sparse but comfortable. His only alteration had been to replace the industrial carpeting, which had been fashionable during the eighties, with hardwood flooring. On the walls were three large, well-executed photographs from home. Mabou Harbour, thick with lobster boats. Port Hood Island, backlit by a sunset that was almost equatorial. An old black-and-white of the Canso Causeway, presumably a day or so before they finished it; foaming water surged through a narrow gap as four men crouched to jump the distance and be first across. Propped here and there on tables and the TV set were smaller photos from the places he had been for work, ruined buildings, hostile-looking brown men with machine guns, important people he’d known. There was one of him and Arafat. Another with Pierre Trudeau and Castro. Gorbachev and a smiling bearded man with a television camera on his shoulder. On his dresser in the bedroom, there was a photograph of her, though she was not particularly fond of it. Her hair was too unkempt, she had protested, her face too slack, her eyes half-open, making her look weary. JC insisted the net effect was one of wantonness and that was why he claimed it and kept it by his bed.
The cat, his immediate needs accommodated, had vanished. She tried to sink into the silence of the little house but was unable toignore the rising shrieks of wind outside. She stood, went to the front window and peered out. The snow now streaked horizontally down Walden, the parked cars already turning into shapeless hummocks. She remembered the open cat food tin on the kitchen counter and went back to cover it with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge, which she noted badly needed cleaning. JC’s mail was scattered on the kitchen table, and she couldn’t resist quickly flipping through it. Among the cards was the envelope from Texas. She saw, in the upper left-hand corner, a return address.
Ellis I, E13—1—14, Huntsville, TX 77343
. She recognized the careful printing and she sighed.
Eventually, she switched on the radio. JC had the tuner set on an AM all-news station, and they were telling people to stay off the streets. A good idea, she concluded after one more look outside. She decided she would stay there for the night.
She dozed awhile on the couch and when she checked his kitchen clock she was surprised that it was nine. She turned on the television and there was a movie halfway finished. She flicked it off, wandered into the kitchen and decided to tidy the table, where, buried under newspapers, she found his laptop. On top of the closed lid he’d left a small square disk. His carelessness surprised her. How easily the disk might have been swept up with the newspapers, tossed and lost, and with it whatever information he’d stored on it.
Briefly she examined it. On the label he had written “Huntsville, TX, ’98.” Curiosity aroused, she again picked up the envelope from Texas, opened it and examined the Christmas card. It was a traditional religious greeting card: the manger scene, the swaddled baby in the straw. Inside, in careful handwriting, this message: “Hope you enjoy a peaceful holiday. Thanks for
The cat stood just inside the door, bushy tail straight out behind him, and yowled accusingly. But by the time she was removing her second boot, he was making friendly rumbling sounds and tight figure eights around her ankles. She could feelthe pungency of the litter box in her eyes but went straight to the sink and filled the cat’s metal drinking bowl with water. She found the cans of cat food neatly stacked in the usual cupboard. Sorley was on the counter in a bound and eating even as she spooned the food into his dish, so she left him there and turned her attention to the soggy litter box. When that was done, she poured a Scotch and sat.
JC’s place was a reno from the late seventies, gutted out, dry-walled and painted white. It was sparse but comfortable. His only alteration had been to replace the industrial carpeting, which had been fashionable during the eighties, with hardwood flooring. On the walls were three large, well-executed photographs from home. Mabou Harbour, thick with lobster boats. Port Hood Island, backlit by a sunset that was almost equatorial. An old black-and-white of the Canso Causeway, presumably a day or so before they finished it; foaming water surged through a narrow gap as four men crouched to jump the distance and be first across. Propped here and there on tables and the TV set were smaller photos from the places he had been for work, ruined buildings, hostile-looking brown men with machine guns, important people he’d known. There was one of him and Arafat. Another with Pierre Trudeau and Castro. Gorbachev and a smiling bearded man with a television camera on his shoulder. On his dresser in the bedroom, there was a photograph of her, though she was not particularly fond of it. Her hair was too unkempt, she had protested, her face too slack, her eyes half-open, making her look weary. JC insisted the net effect was one of wantonness and that was why he claimed it and kept it by his bed.
The cat, his immediate needs accommodated, had vanished. She tried to sink into the silence of the little house but was unable toignore the rising shrieks of wind outside. She stood, went to the front window and peered out. The snow now streaked horizontally down Walden, the parked cars already turning into shapeless hummocks. She remembered the open cat food tin on the kitchen counter and went back to cover it with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge, which she noted badly needed cleaning. JC’s mail was scattered on the kitchen table, and she couldn’t resist quickly flipping through it. Among the cards was the envelope from Texas. She saw, in the upper left-hand corner, a return address.
Ellis I, E13—1—14, Huntsville, TX 77343
. She recognized the careful printing and she sighed.
Eventually, she switched on the radio. JC had the tuner set on an AM all-news station, and they were telling people to stay off the streets. A good idea, she concluded after one more look outside. She decided she would stay there for the night.
She dozed awhile on the couch and when she checked his kitchen clock she was surprised that it was nine. She turned on the television and there was a movie halfway finished. She flicked it off, wandered into the kitchen and decided to tidy the table, where, buried under newspapers, she found his laptop. On top of the closed lid he’d left a small square disk. His carelessness surprised her. How easily the disk might have been swept up with the newspapers, tossed and lost, and with it whatever information he’d stored on it.
Briefly she examined it. On the label he had written “Huntsville, TX, ’98.” Curiosity aroused, she again picked up the envelope from Texas, opened it and examined the Christmas card. It was a traditional religious greeting card: the manger scene, the swaddled baby in the straw. Inside, in careful handwriting, this message: “Hope you enjoy a peaceful holiday. Thanks for
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