In a Mist
IN A MIST
IN A MIST
DEVON CODE
Text copyright © Devon Code, 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any method, without the prior written consent of the publisher.
Some of the stories in this collection have been previously published.
Alice and Roy originally appeared in Invisible Publishing’s Transits Anthology; Edgar and Morty appeared in the Soul Gazers Anthology; The White Knight was short-listed for the 2007 Aeon Award in Albedo 1 Magazine (UK) and Aricia Agestis appeared in print and online in Neon Literary Magazine (UK).
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Code, Devon, 1981-
In a mist / Devon Code.
ISBN 978-1-9267430-1-1
I. Title.
PS8605.O32I55 2007 C813’.6 C2007-905207-X
Cover Design & Typesetting by Megan Fildes
Printed and bound in Canada
Invisible Publishing
Halifax & Montréal
www.invisiblepublishing.com
For Mary Code
July, 1978
Alice and Roy
Edgar and Morty
The Death of Benjamin Hirsch
The White Knight
The Flank and Spur
The Crow’s Nest
June, 1978
Aricia Agestis
July, 1978
When Herb came home that afternoon there was no one there. He went into the bedroom to see if Sue was resting and found the covers smoothed neatly over the empty bed. He sat on the corner of the mattress, tried to recall if she had mentioned taking the girls somewhere that afternoon. Then he slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and kicked off his shoes. He took the pint bottle of gin out of his delivery bag, twisted off the cap and drank from it. The gin burned pleasantly as it coursed down his throat. He went into the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator. The girls’ report cards had been there when he left that morning but now in their place was a note written in his wife’s precise hand, held to the refrigerator door with a magnet shaped like a daisy.
We have left. Please don’t try to find us. The utilities are paid up until the end of the month. —Susan
He set the gin bottle down on the kitchen table and took the note off the refrigerator and held it in his hand, staring at it.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. Then he ripped the note in two and threw it in the wastebin in the cupboard under the sink. He went into the girls’ room, pulled out the top drawer of the dresser and it fell to the floor, empty. He looked on the bed for Sarah’s Raggedy Ann doll and did not find it. Then he looked in the closet. Their summer dresses were all gone, their winter coats, and Melanie’s picture books. He went back into his room and looked at the top of Susan’s vanity and saw that it was empty. He wrenched out her underwear drawer and all it contained was a beige maternity bra and a crimson teddy he had bought for her on their first anniversary. He looked in the closet, rifling through his shirts and pressed slacks. The only articles of Susan’s clothing still there were ones she had not worn in years.
“Christ,” he said. “Susan.”
He went into the living room, picked up the phone and dialled his sister-in-law’s number.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice.
“Where is she, Joan?” said Herb. He heard Joan muffle the receiver and whisper something.
“Herb? That’s you isn’t it? You’ve been drinking,” said Joan.
“Are they with you?”
He strained to hear the sounds of children’s voices but all he could make out in the background was a game show on the television.
“They’re not here. If they’ve gone somewhere I don’t know where. Just sit tight and I’m sure they’ll turn up. Goodbye, Herb.”
“I’m coming over, Joan and you’re going to tell me—”
”No, you can’t come over Herb. I’m hanging up now. You should wait there in case they come back.”
“Joan,” yelled Herb. He could hear a man’s voice in the background.
“Hello?” said his brother-in-law, speaking too loudly.
“Lyle, tell me where they are,” said Herb. He was shaking. He gripped the arm of the chair in order to steady himself, his thick fingers digging into the soft upholstery.
“Herb, listen, whatever’s happened, I’m sure Sue and the girls are fine.”
“Don’t tell me that,” said Herb. “I’m coming over there.” Herb could hear the slurring now in his speech and a rage that surprised him.
“I don’t think so. How do you plan on getting here? Me and Joan are just sitting down to an early dinner.”
“Oh yeah?” said Herb.
“Tell you what, Herb. I’m on night shift, but why don’t I come over after dinner and you can tell me what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Lyle,” Herb yelled.
“Be reasonable. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”
Herb slammed the receiver down and then dialled the military hospital.
“How may I direct your call?” said the operator.
“This is an emergency,” he said. “Susan McConnell is a night nurse on the fifth floor. She recently applied for a transfer. I need to know where.”
“May I ask who’s calling please?” said the receptionist. Herb considered his reply.
“This is her brother-in-law. This is a family emergency,” said Herb.
“I’m afraid I don’t have that information,” said the operator. “If you like I can take down a message and forward—”
Herb slammed down the receiver. He knocked over the end table and the phone fell to the floor.
“Christ!” he screamed. He went back into the kitchen and took the gin bottle and drank from it as if it were a glass of milk after a rich dessert or a cold beer on a hot day.
Then he went into the living room and sank down on the sofa, the springs creaking under his bulk. He rested the gin bottle on the shag carpet and took the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, undid the buttons of his sweatstained shirt and dropped it on the floor. He took off his glasses, rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. Sitting in the silence and the heat of the empty room he remembered dropping Susan off at the hospital one morning, years ago before she switched to nights and started taking the car. He remembered watching from the car as a young officer in immaculate dress uniform held the door open for her, the way she looked at him in that uniform.
The overturned telephone started to beep in the corner. He opened his eyes, put his glasses back on and struggled to his feet. When he got to the phone he picked it up with both hands and wrenched the cord out of the wall. He held it over his head and launched it across the room. The bell chimed on impact and he could see an indentation behind the beige floral wallpaper. When he turned he saw that he had knocked over the gin bottle, its contents spilling out onto the carpet in a dark puddle.
“Son of a bitch.”
He picked up the gin bottle and finished off what remained. He went over to the mantlepiece and put the empty bottle down. The only remaining photograph was from the summer before. The girls, Melanie and Sarah, standing under an oak tree in Canterbury Park, wearing purple and white velour dresses with white stockings and black Mary Janes. In front of them, the Kwong boy from next door, shorter than the girls, grinning, dressed in short pants and a yellow Mickey Mouse t-shirt. The boy seemed always to be riding his tricycle in circles in his driveway. He would greet Herb enthusiastically as “Mr. McConnell” whenever they met. Herb remembered how the boy’s father once found him passed out on the lawn early one morning, and had helped him into the house before Susan got home from work. But when
this photograph showed up on the mantlepiece, Herb asked Sue why the Kwong boy was on permanent display in the company of his daughters. Melanie overheard her father and said that Henry looked up to him because he was a postman. Herb told his daughter that the boy was a fool. He turned the picture face down now, picked up his cigarettes and lit one as he went into the kitchen.
He sat at the table and tried to calm his nerves. While he smoked he studied the calendar hanging on the wall. He saw that Sue had written scrub the floor under the day’s date. He surveyed the brown and white linoleum at his feet but he couldn’t tell how clean it was. He went to the refrigerator and found a package of bologna and a carton of milk he did not remember being there when he had left for work that morning. He took them out and put them on the counter along with mayonnaise and a jar of pickles. He poured himself a glass of milk and took a loaf of bread from the breadbox and made two sandwiches and sat down at the table.
When he finished, he took a jar from the refrigerator with a hand-written label that read Strawberry Jam, August 1977. He made himself one more sandwich, finishing the jam. As he lit his last cigarette, it occurred to him he might never taste that homemade jam again. He put the plate in the sink and opened the cabinet where they kept the grocery money. He took down the Christmas shortbread tin and he could tell by its weight that it contained no loose change and when he took off the lid he found another note:
July 3rd, $20 credit at Dominion Grocery (Walkley Road).
His temper flared and then abated as he realized he could at least use the credit for cigarettes. He was surprised Sue had not thought of this.
He sat back down sideways on the kitchen chair as he smoked and stared at three earthenware jars on the back of the counter, deep orange with brown lips and lids marked Flour, Sugar, Salt, descending in size. Next to the flour jar stood the coffee pot, a General Electric model shaped like an oblong teapot. He remembered that his sister-in-law had bought it on sale at Woolworth’s. One for herself and one for Sue. Herb’s face looked back at him from the polished chrome surface, distorted, an indistinct blur.
He got up and opened the cupboard under the sink, retrieved the note from the wastebin and lined up the two torn halves on the kitchen table, as if to mend the damage. Then he went to the writing desk in the corner of the living room, searched until he found a roll of Scotch tape in the middle drawer next to a pair of scissors. Beneath the tape was a manila envelope with his wife’s name written in a woman’s handwriting he did not recognize. He picked it up and inside he found a sheet of white cardboard with cellophane pouches displaying silver coins. There were two rows with five coins in each row: ten pristine effigies of King George the Fifth, one half-dollar for each year from 1921 to 1930. He tried to think of where they had come from exactly and he recalled attending a funeral in Deep River for Sue’s aunt, remembered how quiet Sue had been for weeks afterward. He checked his wristwatch and he knew there was no way he’d make it to the pawn shop before it closed.
“Shit.”
He left the coin collection on top of the desk and sat back down on the sofa. He had only rested for a minute when he heard the car outside and looked up to see the black Buick pulling into the driveway. He got up and went to the back door. He moved his old guitar case aside and found his tool box easily without the usual clutter of rubber boots and running shoes for little feet. He chose the forged steel carpenter’s hammer and placed his sweaty palm upon its rubber grip just as he heard the rapping on the screen door.
By the time he made it back to the living room, Lyle had let himself in and stood facing him, his considerable frame filling the front doorway: a silhouette against the golden summer light. Herb held the hammer at his side, shielded his eyes and stared at his brother-in-law.
“Doing a bit of handiwork?” said Lyle, as if speaking to a deaf man. The two men stood there for some time, not moving. Herb searched the calm of Lyle’s expression and he could find no trace of fear. Then Herb cleared his throat.
“Don’t see much point,” said Herb finally, tossing the hammer onto the cushion of the chesterfield.
“I’m sure you’ve had a long day,” said Lyle. “Hot day to be carrying mail. Best to take it easy.” Herb looked at him without saying anything.
“My day’s just starting,” said Lyle. “Though I’ve been up all afternoon. Hard to get any sleep in this damn heat.” He took a step forward. “You going to ask me to sit down before I go?”
Herb walked over to the sofa and sat down with a grunt, the hammer shifting as the cushions swelled with his weight.
Lyle took off his driver’s cap, bent toward his boots for a moment before he thought better of it and sat across from Herb in an antique high-backed armchair that was too small for him.
“That’s Susan’s chair,” said Herb.
“I know you’re upset,” said Lyle. “All I can say is that I’m sure they’re safe. You shouldn’t worry about them.”
Herb looked out the front window and watched a young man in a t-shirt and cut-off jeans pushing a manual lawnmower across a lawn on the other side of the street. He saw Mr. Kwong next door holding his son’s hand, the boy looking up at his father, as the two of them walked down the path toward their front door. When he looked back at Lyle he noticed dark blotches beneath the arms of his work shirt and patches of grease on his pant legs. Lyle looked back at him almost serenely, rasping slightly with each breath.
“Just tell me you know,” said Herb. “Tell me you know where they are.”
“What good would that do? What diff erence does it make if I know where they’re gone?” Lyle sniff ed and looked at the puddle drying on the carpet and the discarded shirt and his eyes followed the severed phone cord across the room to the dent in the wall.
“How long had she planned this?” said Herb.
“You need to straighten yourself out,” said Lyle. “I think if you were capable you’d have done it by now. But you still need to try. Don’t look for them. It’ll make it worse. And it’s best if you stay away from Joan. She won’t talk to you.” He stood to leave.
“If you need to talk to someone, you speak to me,” said Lyle.
“I could use some cash,” said Herb, standing, picking up the hammer by its head, tapping the shaft against his thigh.
“You still have a job, Herb. You’re still an able-bodied man. Not some bum on the street.” Lyle turned and went out the door and Herb followed.
“Just a loan,” said Herb. “Until I get . . . organized.” He gestured with the hammer as he spoke, standing in the doorway in his sleeveless undershirt, his pants sagging and his suspenders hanging down to his knees.
“Goodbye, Herb. Do whatever it is you need to do.” Lyle opened the car door and got inside.
“Son of a bitch,” shouted Herb. He walked onto the driveway. The engine turned over and an Eddie Arnold tune blared out of the open window as the Buick backed out. The car was pulling away when Herb let the hammer fly. He aimed low and threw without all his force, and the hammer struck the chrome of the rear bumper and fell harmlessly on the asphalt. The car slammed to a halt and Herb watched Lyle turn in his seat and look back at him, his impassive expression giving way to pity and disdain. Then he turned back around and the engine revved and the car accelerated down the street.
The young man with the lawn mower stood and watched as Herb walked out into the street in his sock feet. As soon as Herb picked up the hammer he returned to his work as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Herb walked back down the driveway and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Kwong boy staring at him from the front window. Strands of the boy’s black hair stood straight up, clinging with static to the chiff on drapes that obscured the room behind him. Herb looked the boy in the eye and swung the side of the hammer’s head into the palm of his left hand and went on into the house.
Herb righted the end table and put down the hammer. He picked up the phone and something rattled inside it and he tossed it back in the corner. In the bedro
om he took a short-sleeved shirt from its hanger and put it on, buttoning the middle three buttons. He slid his suspenders over his shoulders and sat on the bed to put his shoes back on. He paused after tying the first lace, remembered lying there in that room, watching Sue as she extended her bare leg, sliding on her nylons, recalled the touch of her white linen uniform, the scent of baby powder and starch.
Then he picked up the phone on the night stand and dialled his mother’s number.
“Hello?” she said. “Hello? Is that you, Herbert?”
His throat began to swell. He knew if he were to speak she would hear only the slurred despair of his father’s voice, as if calling from beyond the grave. He hung up the phone and walked out of the room.
He went into the bathroom, urinated, and turned to face the mirror. He took off his horn-rimmed glasses and polished the lenses with the corner of his shirt. When he put them back on he saw patches of stubble on his broad cheeks. He recalled the searing morning headache, his unwillingness to turn on the bathroom light while he shaved. Then he noticed more tufts of white in his dark, crewcut hair than he had ever seen before. Opening the medicine cabinet he took a bottle of Listerine, gargled, and spat in the pink porcelain sink. Then he splashed cold water on himself and dried his face with a green towel hung on a hook on the back of the door.
He patted his right haunch and felt the slight bulge of his empty wallet. In the living room he sat down at the writing desk, took the scissors from the middle drawer and worked at the cardboard and the cellophane until all ten coins were loose. He stood, slid the coins into his right front pocket. Before he left, he looked over the living room and except for the dent in the wall and his dirty shirt and the stain on the floor the room looked to him as it did when he would come home late on Sue’s nights off , after she had tidied up and the girls had gone to bed. He did not bother to lock the door after himself. Walking down the driveway he heard the sound of a dog barking, a radio playing. He smelled fresh cut grass and the odour of a charcoal barbeque. As he made his way down the street he looked back at the Kwong’s but the window was empty and so was the driveway and there was no one there to see him leave.