Web of Angels (20 page)

W
hen Sharon left the bathroom, she came down the stairs, smiling her company smile and carrying the napkins. She still had no idea what to do. Could she talk to Dan? What would she say—she had no proof, just the evidence of her eyes, and she didn’t want another fight with him. She always said any child in her house was her child, but that was about making milkshakes and knitting. Not this.

The living room was fragrant from the pot of purple hyacinths on the window ledge, the daffodils beside the spider plant on the bookcase. The younger kids had already demolished the chocolate animals and a good chunk of the lemon cake was gone. Josh was still deciding what to have. He was sharing the ottoman with Cathy, his father sprawled on the rug between his older daughter and his niece. They were blowing bubbles into milk with their straws, seeing how high they could go without overflowing their glasses. Bram was down in the basement, checking out a fuse that kept blowing. She envied him. Anything to get a few minutes away from the chatter and noise.

“What else did Uncle Dan do?” Judy asked. Tired after a sleepover, she was momentarily diverted from pinching her cousin.

“Let’s see. He hated wearing clothes,” Eleanor said, ignoring her brother’s pointed look. She never took him as seriously as he took himself. Emmie was sitting on her lap, feeding her bites of cake. “Your daddy used to strip off and run into the wading pool naked and someone had to hold him down to get a swimsuit on him. Boy could he scream.”

“And you enjoyed it!” Dan accused his sister.

“I sure did.” Her plump arms were around her niece, her top cut low, her arms bare, stretchy pants hugging bottom and hips. In the morning she had fought with Bram, and then they had made up luxuriously before Judy got home. “Remember, Dad?”

“Naked is nice,” Jake said absently as his son-in-law came back from the basement.

“Fixed.” Bram tossed the old fuse onto the bookcase. He’d left his jacket in the basement, his sleeves were rolled up. He had muscular arms. “Who’s naked?” he asked his wife, his thin face breaking into a smile in recollection of their morning.

Emmie was holding her fork, forgotten cake falling onto the plate, face agog with wonder, looking at her daddy who went naked! Outside!

“Oh and there was this kid who used to pick on Dan in grade three until I beat her up,” Eleanor added.

“Not the way I remember it!” Dan protested. “She was picking on you. I tripped her and you sat on her, Ellie. You were as big as me in grade one but you weren’t as smart.”

“Are they always like this?” Cathy asked.

“My family’s nuts. Do you want to go upstairs?” Josh said.

“Not yet. I’m still eating.” She toyed with her cake as if to prove it, listening, watching.

Sharon handed around the extra napkins, setting up the collapsible TV trays so her in-laws didn’t have to balance plates on their knees. While Amy exclaimed over the trays, which she hadn’t seen since her childhood, Sharon perched on the arm of the couch, holding her mug of coffee. Franky was on Amy’s lap, purring as Ingrid scratched between his ears, leaning into her partner.

“The TV trays were in my parents’ garage,” Dan said, “along with the kitchen table. Completely forgotten until Sharon found them.”

Sharon had told him they were practical because she couldn’t bring herself to say retro was cool: it had been so unlike her, that thought in her head, now eerily quiet.

“She has good taste.” Mimi shook her head and frowned as if it was unbelievable given her indifference to Mimi’s opinion on other matters, such as Josh’s girlfriend.

“Oh?” Sharon couldn’t think of anything else to say, not even thank you. Bram looked over at her in mock astonishment. A compliment from their mother-in-law!

“The table is worth money. Turquoise you can find, but blue is rare,” Mimi said. “And that one came with the extra leaf and chrome crown on the chairs. Very rare. The trays hand-painted. I took good care of them. See how colours are still vivid? Young people don’t take care of things. They think a money tree grows in the backyard.”

“A woman of valour is better than rubies,”
Jake said. “It’s in the Bible. Mmmm. Sharon, this is good cake,
bubbeleh.”

“Since when do you read the Bible?” Dan asked.

“Since never. Every Friday my father said it to my mother.
She sees that her merchandise is good and her lamp never goes out at night.”
Jake smiled at his wife, pleased that he’d managed to locate this magnificent nugget of memory for her, while she, better than jewels, took away his plate. Too much sugar!

Sharon was watching her son and his girlfriend, now eating cake with gusto, bumping her hip against his to push him over and give her more room, till he finally slid off the ottoman altogether, laughing. When they finished, they excused themselves, or rather Josh said, “Excuse me,” as he burped into his hand and grinned at his girlfriend. He didn’t have to know that the polite Cathy was gone, replaced by someone else who thought burping was funny. Instinct told him. He had lived with his mother for fourteen years. “Can I be excused?”

“Keep your door open,” Sharon said automatically.

Later when Rick picked up Cathy, insisting that he come to get her and not put anyone out, Sharon watched him as he stood at the door, chatting with Dan, waiting for the kids to say their goodbyes. They didn’t talk about Families Against Guns or the mailing that was supposed to go out and hadn’t yet. It was all about war, economy, sports—things on a grand scale, things that involved teams, companies, countries. Rick’s hair was starting to grey. Because it was blonde, the grey wasn’t immediately noticeable. As he spoke, she watched his lips form words, his tongue scarcely visible
as it moved behind his teeth. When he smiled only his upper teeth showed. The lines in his face were evenly distributed, except for one deeper gash between his brows. His right nostril was slightly more elongated than his left. He didn’t gesticulate, he didn’t point. He stood with his hands in his pockets, fingers tapping when the conversation lagged. He called upstairs, “Cathy! We need to get going.” His fingers were blunt at the tips. His wedding band was octagonal. His Adam’s apple appeared and retreated between his beard and his collar. That was all the skin that showed, everything else under the good leather of shoes and jacket, the twill of his trousers. His wallet was in his back pocket. He kept a lock of Heather’s hair in it, which he showed Dan now, golden hair in a plastic casing. Then the light over the stairs went on, and his other daughter walked down. The silk jacket left upstairs, her dress floated around her, steps inaudible on the runner. Rick cleared his throat. He took her coat from the stand and held it out for her. Sharon watched, wishing she could see inside his head, hoping that all she would see was a sad and aging dad. As he turned to say thanks and goodbye, his eyes were impenetrable and he shivered slightly. Perhaps it was caused by the north wind blowing in as he opened the door.

After everyone was gone, Dan put the folding table back in the basement and stacked the dessert dishes and cups in the dishwasher. Sharon wiped the table and counters, swept the floor. They both pulled the ends of the blue table away from the leaf and rotated it below, pushing the table back together. It was nearly eleven when they headed up the stairs, brushed their teeth, got into their pajamas, picking up the
remote as they settled into bed. The moon was waning, but still fat in the sky as it rose above the alley behind their house.

The news (short for bad news) had its usual quota of disaster: car bombs and flooding, mad cow disease, a mountain lion that attacked a little boy, aid projects to Afghanistan suspended because it had become too dangerous. Dan was sitting up in bed, his back supported by a pile of velvety cushions, Sharon cross-legged in front of him. She swept her hair forward to expose her neck, turning her head as he worked on one side then the other, massaging the knots of muscle, his hands strong from playing handball. “Nice merchandise,” he said. She slapped his knee. On her night table was
The Kite Runner
. If she couldn’t sleep, she’d finish it tonight.

They discussed the bubble in the kitchen ceiling and calling the plasterer, which was on the list, but she had forgotten. Tomorrow for sure. They talked about Jake’s balance and whether he was shakier. The success of putting out “man’s strength” deodorant for Josh. Having the “talk” with him—soon. The window was open to let in the smell of spring. The wind was blowing from the north, chasing away clouds. It would be clear tomorrow.

And Sharon’s head, unusually quiet, wasn’t entirely so, for all the while a small voice whispered,
You are the mommy and he is the daddy. Tell him
. It was worse than the tinnitus she’d had during an ear infection because the buzzing and ringing of tinnitus couldn’t speak through her own mouth and she was getting worried that this unceasing little voice might. So at last she spoke, not from bravery and not from
conviction, but out of fear of embarrassment. “I noticed something tonight,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

“I saw Cathy switch,” she said tentatively.

“Switch what?” He picked up the remote and was flicking the channels as if there might be better news on another one.

“Switch. Someone else came forward.” Okay fine—she was the mom. Any child in her house was her child.
Shh already
. “Like me.”

“How can you tell?”

“The way her face changes. And her voice.”

“Come on, Sharon. Everybody has moods.”

“Moods don’t change like that. What do I look like?” She hated talking like this, as if she was admitting it. “You’ve seen me.”

“I know.” He put the remote on the nightstand, measuring his words so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing. “But Cathy?”

“I’ve seen her a lot more than you have. And I know what I’m seeing, Dan.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“So she’s had stuff happen to her.”

She was listening to his mind work, his voice slow as he put the pieces together. “Yes. And likely by someone who was alone with her a lot when she was little. Probably a relative.”

“Shit. Are you sure you saw her switch?”

Sharon turned to look at him. He’d shaved before coming to bed because he was in the mood. But he’d left his watch on
his wrist because he knew she wasn’t. These were the signs of their life together, the language of their marriage. People who shared a language ought to understand it, but his eyes, dark as the dark ale he favoured, were doubtful.

“This isn’t fun for me,” she said. “Do you think I’d bring this up if I wasn’t?”

“Then we should talk to her parents.”

“What if they’re the abusers?” This was the impossible point. Their own neighbours. The people who had got funding for the arena and started the Committee for Youth. But if one in a hundred kids were multiple, as Brigitte said, then there was one in every grade in the junior school; there were two in every grade in high school. And they all had parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents who had made them so. They were all someone’s neighbours.

“Not Rick,” Dan said.

“You can’t tell from the outside,” she said.

“It’s hard to believe.” Then, adding quickly because he didn’t want to start another fight, “Which doesn’t mean I don’t.” His eyes searched hers as if he, too, had the ability to see the many peeking out at him through the green of moss and bracken, of water, of jade. “Just that it’s hard to imagine Rick … I’ve known him a long time. I’ve worked with him. He’s sent clients my way.”

“It might be someone else. Maybe it all happened when she was little and it’s been over for years. But you can’t rule out Rick or Debra or that she might still be at risk.”

“Debra?” That was even harder for Dan to conceive. All you had to do was look at any Mother’s Day card.

“I’m just saying,” Sharon slid past the question. “Talking to her parents could make life harder for her. I don’t know what to do. You can’t call someplace and report a kid switching. I’m sure you have to witness the abuse or at least see a bruise or something.”

“In that case,” he rolled over. “There’s nothing for us to do right now. Let’s get to sleep.”

When the light was off and Dan was curled around her back, his arm over her, Sharon said, “Maybe it’s my fault that Josh likes her. He sees someone familiar in her.”

“Well, aside from the obvious, you’re nothing like her.”

“How do you mean?” Sharon propped herself up on an elbow.

Hands behind his head, Dan gazed at the ceiling. “When you switch you look different and you sound different and you can do different things,” he said hesitantly, “but even so there is something that is the same. Like all of you are protective of kids. I don’t know much about Cathy but she strikes me as a girl who doesn’t take in stray kittens. She’s more of an achiever.” In the faint streetlight filtered by the curtains, Dan was yawning, rubbing his hand over his face. “Josh likes her because she’s a hot chick and she isn’t boring. That’s the only thing you have in common.”

“I’m hot? Still?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes.

The moon hung in the east, shining on the back of curtains the colour of russet apples. She’d sewn those curtains in the dining room where a meal hadn’t been eaten since they’d moved in. But many things had been made there: all
the cushion covers, costumes for Halloween and school plays, tiny outfits for Heather’s baby, a sweater for her, given to Goodwill instead. The kids’ knitting was in a basket on top of the sideboard. The work of women’s hands, but she was not a woman of valour, her merchandise of little value. She watched her husband as sleep descended. He was wrong, she thought. Other boys might have been confused when Cathy switched. They might have thought her too moody. Not her son.

Dan’s eyes opened. “I’m here with you,” he said, rolling onto his side. One of his arms lay across her pillow, and his hand caressed the crown of her head. They fell asleep, curled together.

I
n the month after Easter, the locust trees bloomed, infusing the neighbourhood with their honey scent. The leaves of maple trees came out, reddish bronze in the sun, then the lilacs in bursts of purple and white. The sky was a lucid blue, unmarred by smog. Sharon watched her son’s girlfriend, waiting for an opportunity to talk, unsure of what to do or say. Meanwhile she baked a gluten-free cake for her niece’s birthday party. The bubble in the kitchen ceiling was peeled away, the injured surface plastered and painted. Cathy finished the scarf she’d been knitting and Josh wore it while playing hockey at the arena. Cathy studied with him, she watched movies with his family, she cleared the table without being asked. She was unremarkable, good-girl classic, noteworthy only for her bland constancy. Even Josh was puzzled, wondering why she didn’t want to arm-wrestle anymore, why she was squeamish about horror movies.