Alligator - Lisa Moore [60]
She doesn’t remember thinking, What about the children? Let Marty worry about the children, is what she thought. Men go off on oil rigs all the time, is what she thought; she didn’t think. She didn’t actually mention the series to Marty.
At the end of class Andrew was called forward and he did his courtesy bow and kicks and blocks and punches and he earned his yellow belt.
She was waiting at a red light and she tilted the rear-view and Andrew was asleep in the back seat. What an explosive blast of love she felt for the boy, especially when he was asleep. It was enough.
Snow slanted through the headlights and she hit slush and soaked a pedestrian. There was going to be an ice storm, the power lines knocked out, the streets would be glass and it came to her all at once: where was the bottle of champagne that had been in the hotel room on their wedding night?
Marty’s sisters had given them a bottle of champagne. They had saved it for an occasion. But they should have it tonight, she thinks. Why wait for an occasion? How frivolous and redemptive to drink champagne for no reason. She remembers tucking it away under the kitchen sink but it’s not under the kitchen sink, she’s sure. She felt the car skid and she slammed the breaks and the car fishtailed and she thinks of the champagne in the dark corner of the cupboard, under the pipes, lying on its side. There’s a car coming straight at them with her little son in the back and she shuts her eyes. She’s driving with her eyes shut and they skid out of the path of the oncoming car.
Hands up to protect the nose, the karate teacher had said to Andrew. He had promised discipline and ancient wisdom, happiness, and self-esteem. She had her script on the passenger seat and a pencil behind her ear. A red light and soon the horns were blasting. Did they drink it already? They were saving it, she’s sure.
They were on Brookfield Road, in the middle of nowhere, when the car died. She can’t remember why the car died. She tried the key and tried the key. She smacked the steering wheel and hurt her hand. Cars came upon her and swerved and zoomed past.
She put on her hazards. The road was empty ahead. She and her sleeping son abandoned by the world, soon to freeze to death. Then a car came toward them, the headlights bouncing slightly, splintering the falling sleet and she had remembered.
The champagne had been recalled, that vintage had glass shards. Someone had found shards of glass. It wasn’t under the kitchen sink. It had never been under the kitchen sink. It was a bottle of bleach she had been thinking of. She hadn’t ever used the hazards before and didn’t know where they were. But she found them, and she put the hazards on and the car engine would not turn over. She could hardly believe it; the car had died.
FRANK
FRANK LISTENED TO the Russians upstairs, there were violins. It was not like Newfoundland music. Their chairs scraped over his ceiling and they stomped their feet like they meant the music, they really, really meant it. The violins revved up and got turgid and squealed and poured like oil. They were drunk and their voices rose in argument. The violins got rougher, full of vengeance and craft and the music was sexual and melodic. It was the same as Newfoundland music or it had turned into Newfoundland music or all music is the same, always, and this was just another example of that.
It had been hot all day and it was still hot. Frank opened the window and put his feet up on a chair and had a coffee. He had a coffee every night before he went to the hot-dog stand.
The windowsill was covered in the elm spanworms and Frank got a rag and squished them and put the rag in a plastic bag and knotted it. He could see hundreds of worms on all the roofs and hoods of the cars parked along the street.
On the radio they said spray. Don’t spray. The trees are finished, a scientist said. The worms have won. On the radio they said the worms would be gone by the end of August.
People called the talk shows about the smell. A pissy odour