Cinnamon Toast and the End of the World (33 page)

I turned the box over in my hands. A perfect little entity, set with careful patterns of stained wood. There was no hinge,
no lid, no way into this thing.

‘You gave me a cube. Hey, thanks.’

‘You have to open it.’ Same intense stare as the day I’d met him. He slapped his arms against his sides in the cold. I was
reminded of a chicken again. Ryan started down the steps backwards, eyes fixed on my face. ‘Don’t be stupid, Stephen. Just
open it.’

He turned and scurried off following his own tracks, so fast I wondered if the box was rigged with plastic explosives.

Janine strode out of the exam hall lighting a cigarette, in a tight red winter coat that was all black piping and buttons.
She told me Ryan’s gift was one of those Japanese puzzle boxes. I gave it to her so she could open it, but she just pushed
the thing back at me.

‘Afraid of what’s in there,’ she said.

We were both at a low point.
The Duchess of Malfi
was over, exams were nearly finished and the dark was slamming down earlier every day. This city seemed to be closing its
doors, getting ready to kick us out.

Janine looked over my shoulder as I fooled around with the box. I shook it next to my ear. There was nothing in it. I could
tell. Not even a piece of paper. Nothing but Ryan Darby craziness.

‘Maybe it’s a condom with a red ribbon on it,’ Janine said. ‘Maybe it’s a cheque for a thousand bucks if you do him.’

‘I’d take it. Really broke lately.’

‘Bet he’s got red pubes.’

He did, actually. I remembered that day in his dorm when he’d thrown the towel over my head for modesty. And, um, yeah. Like
a Clydesdale. But I wasn’t about to tell Janine this.

The snow made our footsteps crunch. Eleanor MacBride came out of the girls’ dorm on the other side of the quad. I watched
Janine’s smile turn into something genuine.

I stuffed the box in a pocket of my overcoat and forgot about it.

A week later, I was on a train heading back to Riverside for Christmas break, and Eleanor was facing me with the sunset behind
her head and asking how everything had changed so fast. I didn’t have an answer for her.

We talked about other stuff instead. Classes. Bands. Which bars were easy to get into and which of our profs were the laziest
at marking. My favourite guy would just write ‘Adequate as far as you go’ on everyone’s
papers. I said I wanted it carved on my tombstone. As we got closer to our destination, I turned quiet.

‘You look like you’re going to faint,’ Eleanor said.

Sick dread and longing to be home were churning together inside me. I sank into my seat. ‘Thought I got away.’

Eleanor reached over and squeezed my hand. I think she understood.

December. Short days, long sunsets, quiet dark nights. It was three in the morning, and I was at Lana’s place looking at the
mirror over the bureau in her room. Our guitars were on the floor; we’d tried to have a band reunion of The Wretched Noise,
but couldn’t remember the words to any of the old songs.

I drew a line through the dust on the mirror glass. Photos were wedged in peeling shingles around the frame. There was a picture
of Lana, a bright jolly three-year-old poised over a birthday cake. Another of her grandparents. Florence the dog as a puppy.
The two of us at the prom. And one I’d never seen before.

Me and Mark. On the steps of my house in the summer. We were dressed practically the same, loose plaid shirts and jeans. I
had my Walkman headphones around my neck and it looked like I was just coming out of a laugh. We were sixteen.

I sat on Lana’s purple bedspread holding this picture in a little pool of light from a reading lamp. She was beside me, her
arm curled around
my waist. Lana eased the picture out of my hand and slid it into the pocket of my shirt.

‘I don’t know what you ever saw in that boy,’ she said.

Eventually we made our way downstairs to the TV room, where Florence the dog lay sprawled like a rug across the floor, lightly
rumbling in her sleep. Through the glass sliding doors we could see the cold white yard and black sky, a birdbath holding
up an awkward wedding cake of snow. Lana was falling asleep. We lay back and were swallowed by the Kovalenkos’ enormous couch
with its smears of Florence hair. I shielded Lana from the glare of the TV.
A Charlie Brown Christmas
was on.

‘Still in love with somebody too,’ she mumbled, her eyes closed. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Ouch. Don’t know what you see in him either.’ I stretched out. ‘Lana.’ Traced the edges of her face. ‘Too bad. Too bad we
can’t stay together. You and me, huh? Live somewhere nice. With our kids. And. Our …’ Drifting off.

‘Boyfriends,’ she said. It made me smile. I was nearly asleep, the scene assembling itself in my head. Lana and me in a white
kitchen with lots of windows, long wooden tables, children setting places for each other. And boyfriends. One in charge of
each kid. I supposed we’d feed them all cinnamon toast. Somewhere near our feet I could hear Florence giving off a steady
current of twitches and growls – sounded like a really good dream. I opened my eyes and found somebody had thrown a blanket
over us. There was light in the sky and it was a new day.

A few nights later, I headed out for Taggart’s Cross, population 893, three towns down the highway from Riverside. Off to
spend the
holidays. I’d always been comfortable more or less ignoring Christmas, a tradition Mom and I had kept up from the time Stanley
was still around. But this year was going to be different. My mother had a boyfriend now, and he had a family, and we were
invited to stay until January.

I’d finally been introduced to Mom’s movie date from the summer – she’d even dragged him down to Halifax to watch me get stabbed
to death in
The Duchess of Malfi
. His name was Fred Dowd. Fred was a little older than my mother, balding and round-shouldered, with glasses and a grey cardigan
that seemed permanently Velcroed to his body. If he touched Mom’s elbow to guide her somewhere, it was like he was handling
fine china. I was relieved at how much I actually liked the guy. Enough to follow him into my first real family Christmas.

So there we were, crammed with the whole Dowd family in an old blue and white farmhouse just off the highway. A woodstove
in the kitchen devoured logs and blasted heat. The thermostats were cranked up. Dowd bodies wrapped in wool expelled warmth
and breath and sounds. Windows were never allowed to open.

At dinner, we ploughed through piles of meat and potatoes, canned fruit under glops of Cool Whip for dessert. We made lame
small talk with our mouths full. We listened to the Dowd men holding forth on immigration and free trade and Mulroney and
the rest of it, while a dusty cuckoo clock on the dining room wall kept up a steady creaking rhythm, permanently stuck at
a quarter past one. Below the clock was a picture of Christ with liquid brown eyes and folded hands, gazing up. If I was in
a silly mood, I’d imagine the cuckoo bird suddenly appearing, and Jesus catching it on a long sticky tongue that unrolled
like a frog’s. Then I’d have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I’d decided to help my mother by acting
as normal as possible – even went
back to the Riverside guys’ uniform. As far as anyone knew, I was just a regular boring kid who read a lot.

Several times a day I got my coat and escaped on my own to smoke. Nothing but pastures and woodland from the house to the
horizon.

But Mom seemed happy enough, and I could just about stand it for her sake, though I don’t know how thrilled the Dowds were
to have me there. The adults prodded me with the same questions over and over, forgetting that they’d already asked and I’d
already answered. I’d step into the TV room and the Dowd children would turn and silently stare at me until I left. If I talked
too much in front of Granny Dowd, she stared as well, her mouth moving like she was chewing on gristle.

This was the first granny I’d ever met, and she was a major disappointment.

I think she was actually one of the granddad’s aunts. Dusty crypt old. And nuts. She’d go skulking around the place in crocheted
slippers with pom-poms on the toes, forever tied up in some piece of behind-the-scenes family resentment, hissing at one of
the Dowd daughters in the upstairs hallway. I overheard her once, as I was plodding off to my little guest room to grab some
time alone. She was going on about an old buried conflict, somebody’s kid she didn’t approve of, or possibly she was talking
about a dog.

‘I suppose she’s proud of herself,’ Granny was whispering. ‘Raising
that
. I’d hang my head in shame. I certainly wouldn’t sit it at the dinner table. With children. With
married
couples!’

Embarrassing overhearing these family conflicts, even if I had no idea who they were talking about. It was like the Dowds
were parading around in front of me in their underwear.

Which they did, eventually. Or their pyjamas, which seemed about the same thing.

Christmas morning. My mother and I exchanged gifts in the hallway at the head of the stairs before anyone else was awake.
We were fully dressed. Not into this communal pyjamas thing. I gave her a nice scarf and a gift certificate for the bookstore
where Christopher worked. She got me a subscription to some kind of gay magazine. I thanked her.

‘Well,’ she said, blushing deeply, ‘I actually thought you might prefer something a bit more … uh … raunchy. But—’

‘Jeez, Mom!’ I put my hand over her mouth. ‘That’s okay. That’s fine. I don’t want you looking at gay porn.’

We were whispering, glancing down the hallway. My mother started getting the giggles.

‘I really hate Christmas,’ I mumbled into her ear.

People emerged from their rooms, and then it was time to file downstairs with our adopted family. The gift-giving was a bit
unnerving – tearing off the paper and displaying your winnings to the rest of the tribe. Fred Dowd got my mother an expensive
necklace and his sisters all glanced at each other. He gave me a thesaurus, which I thought was sweet.

A few hours later, we all sat down and started passing hot dishes of meat and mush around the table. Our glasses were full
of wine or grape juice. We raised them and clinked hollowly. My mother got brave after a glass of wine and starting telling
the story of the Riverside elves.

‘I’ll get home from work and somebody’s mowed the lawn. Or the leaves are swept in piles. Even the snow cleared out of the
driveway. No note, no bill, no nothing.’ She shrugged, smiling. ‘Elves!’

‘She’s not kidding,’ said Fred, although no one had contested my mother’s story. ‘I went over there once with a leaf-blower
to help her clear the yard. Course that was really just an excuse to get some time alone with Maryna.’ He blushed and covered
her hand with his, and
she giggled at him like a teenager. The rest of the table ignored this. Fred recovered. ‘Anyway, I get there and – poof! It’s
all done.’

The Dowds nodded blandly and several people said that it was a strange thing all right. Then the brother-in-law with the beard
changed the subject so he could go off on one of his rants. This time it was AIDS.

‘If you ask me, anybody who’s got it deserves it.’ He was leaning forwards with his mouth full of winter squash. ‘Kind of
lifestyle that pretty well encourages disease. Thousands of, you know,
partners
. Sexual partners,’ he said, dropping his voice and glancing guiltily at the children at the far end of the table. ‘And now
it’s getting so that good, decent people can’t—’ I switched him off. Heard a lot worse than that.

Thousands of partners. I started smiling into my mashed potatoes. Could you fill an auditorium with them? A convention centre?
Jeez, mine could all hang out with the coats in the hall closet and they’d still be comfortable. Of course, if I included
all the people I’d only thought about sleeping with. Now that would be a party. The underwear guys from the Sears catalogue
trooping into this banquet hall, filling up tables. It was Christmas, so I put them all in Santa hats.

Then beside me I heard my mother whisper the man’s name, fiercely. ‘Joe!’ His wife nudged him. Her eyes darted to my side
of the table. Joe glanced at me, startled, caught. So did the guy next to him. And his wife. And Granny Dowd. And … oh, no.

The whole table was looking in my direction. The whole room. I felt cold, suddenly aware of the food in my mouth, this pulpy
mass.

Joe cleared his throat. ‘Although I probably don’t have … all the facts and … uh …’ He changed the subject, started talking
about Oliver North, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

I moved the mush on my plate around. Didn’t dare look up.

They knew. They all knew. Mom must have told them before we’d even come here, probably to stop Mr World Policy from mouthing
off like this. And of course somebody had shared the news with Granny. Sneering at me when I talked, getting freaked out if
I brushed past her. ‘If I’d raised
that
…’
That. It
. All made sense now.

Flat scraps of turkey seething in brown gravy, red gore of cranberry sauce still bearing the imprint of the can it had slid
from. We were staying past New Year’s. Another week to go.

Then something occurred to me. Like a message from an angel, clarity descending from a cold, perfect place.

You don’t have to do this
.

That’s right. Walk away. This is a crazy old lady who hasn’t actually met that many people in her life. This is a family under
strain, suddenly coping with two potential grown-up members. Nothing to do with you. Leave now.

‘Mom,’ I said. It was quiet at the table. I still hadn’t taken my eyes off my plate. ‘I think I forgot some stuff back at
the house. I’m gonna borrow your car and go, okay?’ I stood up. ‘I’m gonna go now.’

There was a flurry of protests behind me. I didn’t listen, went upstairs for my suitcase and coat. Got to the front door before
I realised I didn’t have the keys to the car. Shit. My clear sense of purpose was getting muddy. I stared through the gloom
at the dining room doorway, lit up with its long table full of Dowds, its cuckoo clock and Jesus.

Then someone was bustling towards me in the dark.

‘Just let me get my coat.’

‘Mom!’ She had her purse clamped under her arm, a ring of keys in her fist.

‘Well, I’m not staying if you’re leaving.’

‘Don’t …’ I couldn’t take my eyes off those keys. ‘I want to be by myself. And what about Fred? He really likes you.’

‘Oh, honey. He doesn’t know me. Not really.’

‘Well, maybe, but …’ I felt so sorry for Fred. ‘Give him a chance. You got a good thing going with this guy.’ I reached down
and took my mother’s hand. The hand with the ring of keys. ‘Mom, can I?’ I shifted the car keys off the little chrome circle
and closed my fingers around them. She looked wounded. I gave her hand a squeeze. Turned to go.

‘No.’ My mother grabbed my arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said helplessly. ‘I know I’m being clingy.’

Hadn’t we done this before? Weren’t we always doing this? Back and forth. Round and round. Please go. Don’t leave. Please.
Don’t.

‘We never see each other anymore.’ She took hold of my wrist.

‘Course we do. You’re up to visit all the time.’ I tried to break away. She was still holding me. ‘And nobody else I know
calls their mother practically every day. Look, I’m not complaining. But … oh fuck.’

‘No need to swear.’

‘Please let me go.’

‘I’m not stopping you.’ My wrist was still in her grip. Attached to the hand with the car keys. We stood not moving, eyes
locked on each other.

‘Mom, please. I’m not even gonna stay in Halifax forever. There’s so many other places I want to see. I might end up in Toronto
or Montreal. Or the States. Maybe even London. Paris. Who knows?’ I shut my eyes, but kept talking. ‘Now I just want to drive
to Riverside.’