she smiles.
“What is this?” Johnny says. “You’re on drugs.” He’s thinking about Charlene, her black hair spread out on the rug, her eyes closed, and the constriction of her throat, on, off, on, off, as he moved inside her. The body is an amazing thing; muscles and shit and blood and veins, and somewhere in there, behind those closed eyes, is a little trigger that tells Charlene if she is happy or sad or horny or hungry or thirsty; and that’s what makes her throat go on and off. Or maybe it’s Johnny. He doesn’t like to think about it too much.
“That’s incredible, Tanya,” the man on the TV says. “Nothing stuck.”
Johnny rubs his jaw. Tanya and the man keep discussing the merits of the frying pan so Johnny switches to a rerun of “The Rockford Files.” His toes are cold; he puts on socks. He eats a bar from the dispenser over by the pool table and, when the show’s over, switches off the TV. The centre feels hollow; water is dripping in the bathroom. He wonders about this place sometimes, what he’s trying to prove. People in town, theylaugh at him. Still, he believes that kids are more interesting than adults; teenagers are honest and hopeful.
Johnny wonders why adults are so cynical. That used to be the wonderful thing about Charlene; she supported him, told him he was fine, not to worry about others. Not any more, Charlene’s losing it. He knows it’s the baby, the blunt fact that he went and did this thing with Loraine so he’ll have this other body out there; his genes, cells, maybe even the same slant to the mouth. This is too much for Charlene.
“So what,” Johnny says. He finishes his bar and falls asleep, chocolate still melting into his molars.
The following morning he has breakfast at Chuck’s. He sits with Joe Emery who talks about the road—he’s a trucker—and about Melissa and his kids. Johnny knows that Joe’s boy, Roger, stole a car the other night. Chris and Melody were involved but Roger was the big push. He waits for Joe to mention it but he doesn’t. Later, driving to work, Johnny thinks people need to talk more, get stuff out in the open. It’s no good, this hiding. He’s guilty too, he knows it. Feeling this, he drives past the feed mill and turns up the three-mile road and over to his farm. Smoke rises from the chimney, a lazy curl, and he thinks that Charlene must have lit a fire.
He finds her in the living room, lying in front of the wood stove. She’s on her back, snoring, wearing a T-shirt and panties. The house is cold, the fire almost out. Johnny touches Charlene’s foot. Ice. He scoops up his wife, stumbles, then carries her to the bedroom on the second floor. He runs the bath, then removes Charlene’s clothes and bends to her again. She smells of vomit and gin. Her breasts slide to either side as he straightens and carries her to the tub. He lays her in. She groans and pushes at the water; her red fingernails sink. He holds her head above the water and leans his chest against the tub.
“Charlene,” he says, “I’m going to wash you.” And he does. He wipesher face, pokes at her ears. He soaps her back, her front, her crotch. He scrubs her. Her hair he leaves; it’s too long. When he is finished she is awake but still limp and heavy.
“Stand up,” he says.
She tries but fails. He lifts her from her armpits and she hangs on to the towel rack as he dries her. “I’m sorry,” she manages at one point. Johnny puts her to bed and goes downstairs to make coffee and toast. Charlene is sleeping when he returns. He touches her forehead. He kneels beside the bed and watches her face. He loves her again. What had seemed so desperate last night appears brighter today. Johnny remembers when he married Charlene and she talked about how some day she wanted five children and a grand house and when she said this she smiled and pushed at Johnny’s chest with the heel of her hand, as if Johnny were on the edge of something and she wanted to check if
“What is this?” Johnny says. “You’re on drugs.” He’s thinking about Charlene, her black hair spread out on the rug, her eyes closed, and the constriction of her throat, on, off, on, off, as he moved inside her. The body is an amazing thing; muscles and shit and blood and veins, and somewhere in there, behind those closed eyes, is a little trigger that tells Charlene if she is happy or sad or horny or hungry or thirsty; and that’s what makes her throat go on and off. Or maybe it’s Johnny. He doesn’t like to think about it too much.
“That’s incredible, Tanya,” the man on the TV says. “Nothing stuck.”
Johnny rubs his jaw. Tanya and the man keep discussing the merits of the frying pan so Johnny switches to a rerun of “The Rockford Files.” His toes are cold; he puts on socks. He eats a bar from the dispenser over by the pool table and, when the show’s over, switches off the TV. The centre feels hollow; water is dripping in the bathroom. He wonders about this place sometimes, what he’s trying to prove. People in town, theylaugh at him. Still, he believes that kids are more interesting than adults; teenagers are honest and hopeful.
Johnny wonders why adults are so cynical. That used to be the wonderful thing about Charlene; she supported him, told him he was fine, not to worry about others. Not any more, Charlene’s losing it. He knows it’s the baby, the blunt fact that he went and did this thing with Loraine so he’ll have this other body out there; his genes, cells, maybe even the same slant to the mouth. This is too much for Charlene.
“So what,” Johnny says. He finishes his bar and falls asleep, chocolate still melting into his molars.
The following morning he has breakfast at Chuck’s. He sits with Joe Emery who talks about the road—he’s a trucker—and about Melissa and his kids. Johnny knows that Joe’s boy, Roger, stole a car the other night. Chris and Melody were involved but Roger was the big push. He waits for Joe to mention it but he doesn’t. Later, driving to work, Johnny thinks people need to talk more, get stuff out in the open. It’s no good, this hiding. He’s guilty too, he knows it. Feeling this, he drives past the feed mill and turns up the three-mile road and over to his farm. Smoke rises from the chimney, a lazy curl, and he thinks that Charlene must have lit a fire.
He finds her in the living room, lying in front of the wood stove. She’s on her back, snoring, wearing a T-shirt and panties. The house is cold, the fire almost out. Johnny touches Charlene’s foot. Ice. He scoops up his wife, stumbles, then carries her to the bedroom on the second floor. He runs the bath, then removes Charlene’s clothes and bends to her again. She smells of vomit and gin. Her breasts slide to either side as he straightens and carries her to the tub. He lays her in. She groans and pushes at the water; her red fingernails sink. He holds her head above the water and leans his chest against the tub.
“Charlene,” he says, “I’m going to wash you.” And he does. He wipesher face, pokes at her ears. He soaps her back, her front, her crotch. He scrubs her. Her hair he leaves; it’s too long. When he is finished she is awake but still limp and heavy.
“Stand up,” he says.
She tries but fails. He lifts her from her armpits and she hangs on to the towel rack as he dries her. “I’m sorry,” she manages at one point. Johnny puts her to bed and goes downstairs to make coffee and toast. Charlene is sleeping when he returns. He touches her forehead. He kneels beside the bed and watches her face. He loves her again. What had seemed so desperate last night appears brighter today. Johnny remembers when he married Charlene and she talked about how some day she wanted five children and a grand house and when she said this she smiled and pushed at Johnny’s chest with the heel of her hand, as if Johnny were on the edge of something and she wanted to check if
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