Flight (3 page)

They pass the Royal Bank. She sees Sonya, one of the tellers, through the glass. Sonya waves while giving fake
Oh, they're so sweet
looks to the kids. Emily waves back. Sonya's the main reason why Emily decided against opening up her own account. Better to take her chances in the basement rather than have her husband hear about her weekly sixty-dollar deposits from Sonya or one of the others. Kent prefers all of the money to flow into and out of the same place. Should have been a banker, Emily sometimes thinks, considering the attention he pays to their joint account.

Underneath her jacket, she wears a blue button-up shirt with Hodder's Grocery and Convenience written over the right breast pocket. Over the left is her nametag. As if anyone needs their name written on their chest in this town. Her black pants end at her black sneakers. Come Friday she can part with them, too – maybe throw them in the trash or leave them lying on the bed. Something for him to remember her by. Perhaps she'll leave her nametag in his coffee cup.

She almost forgets there was a time she'd dreamed of studying at the university in St. John's: social work, or something to do with children. Becoming pregnant with Jeremy dashed those plans. As did the ring in its black casing Kent had presented to her on that day in September eleven years ago.

“Jeremy, wait for us!” She was unaware that he'd run off already. That's how consumed she is in her own thoughts. The other day she'd left the house with the stove on, then forgot her phone number when she went to call Kent and warn him.

Jeremy doubles back, joins them. “I can walk myself, you know.”

“But Mommy likes to go with you.” It's not a lie. The fifteen-minute walk with them to school each morning is the only part of her day she loves. The chance to be alone with them away from that house. For so long she's imagined taking the right onto Glover Street instead of Trinity, walking past the Anglican Church and the Parish Hall, Pete's Fish n' Chips and The Dock Marina, along the gangway and onto the ferry. Jeremy holding her right hand; Lynette her left. Them walking to the bow of the boat towards the mainland. Not once looking back.

Years of weather have faded the orange-brown elementary school at the end of the street. With the rise of marsh, and stilted, windblown trees beyond it, the building seems out of place, like a scar. Children in open jackets and sneakers run and laugh in the courtyard. Some red-faced girls chase some red-faced boys. Others kick a soccer ball.

“Can I go now?” Jeremy asks, his eyes on the boys with the ball.

“Not before you tell me what you have to do.”

He's like a dog being held back from a steak. “Hold Lynette's hand.”

“That's right. What else?”

“Mom!”

“What else, Jeremy? When are you allowed to let go?”

“When we get to the house.”

“That's right. Don't you dare let go until you're turning the doorknob. I shouldn't be much later than four today.”

Emily wishes she could kiss him goodbye like she used to do up until six months ago. But something in her boy has changed since this past Christmas. Not only can she not kiss him in public, she can't hold his hand either, or walk too close.

“Go on then,” she says to him.

He takes off without so much as a goodbye.

Lynette still likes her mommy's kisses though, and she'll take a hug afterwards too.

“Have a nice day at school,” Emily says, watching her baby girl walk away, purple knapsack flopping side to side with each step, and golden hair in two long braids with green buckles at their ends. Instead of joining the other children in the schoolyard, Lynette goes to the main entrance. Emily waits for the limp wave that her daughter gives her every morning before she pulls open the doors. Lynette doesn't disappoint. Emily imagines her youngest going to her locker, then to her homeroom, not feeling the need to linger in the crowded corners, or gossip by the water fountain. Such a practical little girl. Twice her age it sometimes seems.

Jeremy is hogging the soccer ball. A few boys give chase, but can't get it away from him. Athletic like his dad, and bigger too than most of the other kids his age.

“Fine morning,” says a voice behind her.

She turns around to see a pregnant Irene Baker – hands, one on top of the other – resting on the impressive bulge beneath her long sweater.

“Chilly though,” Emily says.

“When isn't it in
this
place?”

“There's a whole week in late August, I think.”

They both laugh.

“Where's your boy?”

“Chasing yours.” Irene points.

“She doesn't want to come out, does she?” Emily indicates Irene's belly with a jut of her chin.

“
He
. And no, he doesn't. Nearly two weeks overdue now. Myles says with everything going on the baby's better off staying inside.”

In the silence, Emily remembers what Kent had said to her earlier:
Myles is finished
. “Perhaps it won't come to layoffs,” she says.

“There'll be a lot of angry men if it does. That's what Myles says.”

Emily nods but doesn't say anything.

For a while both women watch their children.

Finally, Irene says, “Some bite to that wind.”

“Goes right through you, doesn't it?”

“To the bone.” Irene tucks a sliver of red hair behind her ear. Turns to Emily, hesitates before saying, “Has he said anything?”

“Hmm?”

“Kent. Has he said anything?”

There might not be a Lightning Cove by the end of the month.
“No.”

Irene keeps her eyes on her for a long time before finally turning back towards the schoolyard.

Another long moment passes and, just as Emily's about to say goodbye, Irene says, “Not a skill does he have.”

“Sorry?”

“Myles. It's either the plant or nothing.”

The school bell rings. Children scatter.

It rings again.

“I should be getting to work,” Emily says.

“Go on, my dear, don't let me keep you.”

“Have a good morning.” Emily turns around and starts walking. Then stops long enough to say, “I hope the little one comes soon.”

“He'll have to, won't he?”

She doesn't get very far before she hears Irene's voice again.

“It's good news.”

She turns around. “What is?”

Irene smiles. “No news.”

Emily does her best to smile back.

4

TERRY GRINS AT HER through the glass doors of Hodder's Grocery and Convenience – exposed gums above tiny teeth. He reaches inside a trouser pocket and pulls out his keys. Inserts one and then turns the deadbolt. Pushes open the door. “Morning.”

She rushes past him. “Sorry I'm late.”

He smells like Mr. Clean.

“Hardly late,” he says, looking at his watch.

She goes to the cash and takes off her coat, stuffing it into the cubbyhole underneath.

“Early if anything.”

She stops and looks at him. “Am I?”

He nods.

“That's funny, thought I was late.” She looks down, notices that Terry has put her till, along with the two hundred dollar float, into her register. “You don't have to keep doing this,” she says.

“I don't mind.” He puts the deadbolt back in place and goes over to her. Stands on the other side of her checkout counter with his hands in his pockets.

“You don't do it for Heather.”

“That one needs all the practice she can get.”

Those are new pleated slacks he's wearing, she thinks. His dress shirt is new too, buttoned up to just below his Adam's apple, the veins is his neck about to pop. The same shoes, except polished now. See your reflection in them. She pushes in the till and then runs a little receipt paper through. Tears off the top and tosses it in the garbage near her feet.

“Put a new roll in not ten minutes ago.”

“Oh,” she says. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He takes another step towards her, his lower half pressed against the counter. “There's coffee downstairs.”

“Had some already.”

“Oh. Well, you know where to find it if you change your mind.”

She nods.

He just stands there.

Jutting her chin towards the store's entrance, she says, “You going to open?”

“In a minute.”

Emily nods, then reaches towards the magazine rack for a
Newfoundland
Herald
.

Terry rushes over and grabs one before she gets the chance. He hands it to her.

“Thanks.” Emily rests her bum against the cash register and opens the magazine. Searches through the table of contents for something interesting. There's an article on page forty-eight: “The New Province of Newfoundland, Labrador, and Fort McMurray,” the caption says. She flips through until she finds the page.

Terry's still standing there.

“You just going to watch?” she says.

He takes his hands out of his pockets only to put them back in again.

She closes the magazine. Pushes her pelvis forward so that she's standing at full height. Moves closer to him. “Something the matter?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. You're acting strange.”

Terry shrugs. Fumbles with the loose change in his pockets. “It's nothing.”

“Tell me,” she says.

He doesn't.

“Tell
me.”

He releases a breath. “Okay, but you don't have to worry, you're still a hundred times the worker that Heather is.”

“Oh my God; what did I do?”

“No big deal – ”

“Tell me.”

He hesitates, then says, “You left without cashing out yesterday.”

She doesn't say anything.

“The till was left on the counter with all the money in it.”

Still she doesn't speak.

“No biggie. Who's going to steal it around here, right?”

She goes back to yesterday in her mind. Ten customers the whole day. Maybe less. Donna Rowe with her two young ones; and Peggy Flynn with the dirty hair; Reverend Parsons, his basket loaded with Vachon Cakes and Canada Dry (To mix with his whiskey, no doubt); Alan Cross's pretty wife, Marlene with the dimples and nice figure. Emily can even remember the clothes they wore, so why can't she remember leaving out the money?

Terry swallows so hard it's a wonder he doesn't snap the top buttons of his shirt. “It's not the first time.”

She pauses, waits for him to go on.

“Monday of last week it was.”

She lays her palms on the checkout counter to keep herself upright. Breathes deeply, right down to her toes. Exhales, then says, “Why didn't you mention it
then
?”

“Because you'd never done it before. And who doesn't make a mistake every now and then, right?” He takes his hands out of his pockets and rests them on his hips. “Sure, not that long ago, I closed up without shutting off the lights.”

It's the tiredness, she thinks. The worry. The weeks – since she's decided to go for good – of pretending everything's perfect.
Weeks?
Years
more like it. Her
whole life
.

Terry's saying something, but she has to ask him to repeat it.

“No harm done, I said.”

Emily looks past his shoulder towards the door and can swear Kent's standing there with his face pressed against the glass, fogging up the window with his breath.

“Emily?”

She can't turn her face away.

“Emily?”

Finally she's able to. Looks down at her hands, wondering when it was that Terry had placed one of his over top. She lifts her chin to meet his gaze. “What?”

“You're so pale.”

She slips her hands out. “Who isn't in this place?”

“You look beat.”

“You try raising two youngsters.”

“Perhaps you should take the day off?”

“I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Open the store, Terry.”

They're silent for a moment.

He walks around the cash, intending, she thinks, to join her in the cramped space behind it. She sticks out her palm. “That's far enough.”

Terry stops.

“We're right in front of the window,” she says.

He looks to it, then back at her.

She imagines Kent's fists. Those empty eyes.

Terry goes to the front door and inserts the key and turns the deadbolt. Flips the sign around to Open. Turns back to face her. “You sure everything's all right?”

She nods.

Another silence. Then Terry says, “You're not just any employee, you know.”

She doesn't say anything.

“Not to me.”

She holds his gaze for a moment, then picks her
Newfoundland
Herald
back up. Opens it and pretends to read. When she turns back to look, Terry's gone.

5

EMILY AND HEATHER ARE SITTING on overturned milk crates behind Hodder's Grocery and Convenience. An Orange Crush with a lipstick-stained straw is pressed between Heather's thighs. Emily's leaning back, her face tilted towards the midday sun, wondering how Jeremy will react once he finds out his father won't be coming with them this Friday. He'd always been closer to Kent, even as an infant. She'd spend hours trying to coax her sore nipples into his mouth while he screeched. It was only when Kent would come home and lift him into his arms that the tears would stop.

“I wish there was something stronger in this,” Heather says. She takes a draw before handing the cigarette over to Emily. “Anything to get me through this shit day.”

Emily grabs it and then takes her own puff.

“How does he even stay in business? There's hardly been a soul in the place all week.”

“Be worse after the layoffs,” Emily says, throwing the smoke to the gravel before dabbing it with the toe of her sneaker. “If people start moving away.”