Thirteen Shells Page 6

  Friday morning, Shell wakes up first. Maybe it’s the paper boy’s squeaky wheel or the way her curtains billow open with dawn breeze. The hall light’s been on all night. She reaches up and pops the switch. All Shell can hear is the wind from the furnace and — there — the curdled notes of a blue jay. Mum and Dad’s door is always a bit open because the latch has been painted over so many times. Shell nudges it further inward, lowering her face against the sour warmth thickening within. Heavy wool covers the window, the panels of which are safety-pinned together so Mum can out-sleep the sun. And yet, as pastry flour through a fine sieve, morning penetrates the wool, falling across the sturdy pioneer bed where Mum snores and Dad lies on his back, arms crossed over his chest like when he’s talking to another adult. The rug burns Shell’s knees as she slides towards the three-legged stool next to Dad, her hand outstretched. Cookbooks wobble high, pages marked with bits of newspaper. Dad’s eyeglasses are folded up next to a spill of sticky lozenges and the notebook he keeps in his top shirt pocket, curved as the shape of his chest. Dad’s dentures smell a bit like cheese and there’s some wet stuff on the underside of the smooth metal roof. When Mum lets out a snort, Shell palms the teeth and slides backwards out the door.

  The bathroom is cold and smells like last night’s bubbles. Dad’s teeth rest in a puddle beside the sink, the basin strung with hair and chalked in dry soap. The dentures might be something out of National Geographic. Except that Dad’s plate is roofed in silver rather than flaked bone and its teeth are grey pearl, not the black and brown of ancient man. Shell squeezes not too much Aim onto Dad’s toothbrush, runs it under the tap.

  You wake up in the morning, it’s quarter to one

  And you want to have a little fun

  You brush your teeth ch ch ch ch ch ch ch ch

  You brush your teeth ch ch ch ch ch ch ch ch

  She always starts with the three front teeth, brushing in circles like the dental nurse showed with her giant toothbrush and set of fake teeth called Stan. The pointy tooth at the side goes next, followed by the lone molar. Shell dries the teeth on a towel before putting them back on Dad’s stool. Today, like yesterday and the day before, when Shell gets up early to brush Dad’s teeth, he’ll be less unhappy. And that means Mum will be too.

  “Where’s the pastry?”

  Mum says they’re having porridge for breakfast.

  “I want a croissant.”

  “Shell, stop. The table needs bowls.”

  Shell’s eating when Dad comes down in his overalls and cap, sleeves pushed to the elbow. “Wow, Dad, your teeth look nice this morning.” Shell makes her voice extra happy the way she learned to do in choir.

  Dad smooths Shell’s hair and calls her kiddo.

  “Where’s the pastry bag?” He turns to Mum and frowns.

  “In the compost.” The cheese was rancid, Mum says, never mind that meat.

  Dad says low and hard that he wants a croissant. Mum says go get them yourself if he doesn’t believe her. Shell is so glad for the radio sometimes, the smooth voices and regular bouts of news. Her runners and school bag are by the back door. Mum sits spooning porridge, one hand holding her velveteen robe together, and Dad’s slicing bread for the toaster. When Shell opens the back door, Mum looks over, a droplet of milk wobbling on her chin. Shell’s to be home for lunch.

  “Don’t dawdle.”

  There’s a concrete block by the compost pile so that when the slimy pail under the kitchen sink is full, Shell can lift off the sheet metal cover and empty the pail inside. The Enriched bag is right on top, soaking into coffee grinds and vegetable peels from last night’s lentil soup. Behind her, Dad moves across the back-door window, coffee in his hand and his mouth opening and closing. Shell holds her breath and purses her lips against the flies as she sticks her hand into the paper bag. There’s got to be an almond croissant inside. Oh, and she’ll take that chocolate bread too, chunks of which she pokes in her mouth walking down the driveway. The pastry is dry and tastes like onion. Shell ducks beneath the open kitchen window. Above the sound of water and radio, Mum’s voice is as big as it’s ever been. She’s saying over and over, “What the hell is happening with us?”

  With a soft HB pencil, Shell sketches the man begging for change in front of the Canada Trust down on Clayton Street. With purple and orange pencil crayons and in her best cursive, Shell writes out the man’s deepest wishes — for scrambled eggs and hot coffee — so they swirl above his head. Even from way up in Dad’s studio, the man’s eyes are puffy and red; “Hemoglobin” is the name of the pencil Shell chooses for them. “Chestnut” darkens the man’s hair, and because his skin is closest to “Buttercup,” Shell thinks he must be sick.

  When Dad and Kremski left for the auto wreckers, the coffee warming in the pot by the sink smelled like chocolate and wood. Now, though, it’s more like when Mum burned the popcorn because she didn’t use enough oil. Shell leaves it on because, along with linseed and the tang of Kremski’s acrylics, it smells as Dad’s studio should. The pottery studio at home smells like wet bones and toasted paper, and that’s completely different.

  The people brushing past the beggar man end up in a pencil-crayoned tornado of rainbow hair, X’d out eyes, and mouths like zippers. When Dad and Kremski walked by him on the way to the car, Dad said something to make the man laugh and tip his corduroy ball cap. Most people don’t even look when the man sticks out his hand and speaks right to them. He sort of bobs up and down as he tries to find the eyes of all those passing. Dad says you have to acknowledge a human being when he speaks to you because no one is invisible.

  “Everyone once had a mum and dad, Shell,” Dad says. “Everyone was once a baby.”

  Once I was a baby, Shell writes under the man’s blue boots. She gets limp in the sunny window, melts like butter in a hot skillet. Leaning against the glass, Shell closes her eyes. Her half sleep is prodded by car beeps, the click of the coffee pot, the crook in her neck.

  Secret footsteps — where? There! Outside Dad’s door.

  Shell pops awake. The beggar man with the hemoglobin eyes is gone from his spot in front of the bank. Dad’s door — pinned with Cuban flags and Buy Canadian stickers and brightened with Kremski’s acrylic swirls — is chained from the inside like Kremski and Dad said to do. The beggar man shuffles in the hallway. What’s Shell doing spying on him when all he wants in the world is a plate of scrambled eggs? How would she like it?

  The knock is shy — one, pause, two. Air rushes through vents. In the wall, pipes clang, low and slow.

  “Dad?”

  The yellow Dart should be passing by any minute now; the jut of Dad’s and Kremski’s beards will be in the front seat along with the peak of their ball caps. And there’ll be some car parts tied down to the roof rack — bumper, spare tire, undercarriage. Kremski and Dad have some new sculpture idea going.

  The next knock makes Shell more mad than scared. Then a lady’s voice calls out. It says Dad’s name and then, “It’s Paulina.” Paulina asks Dad to open up. She says she can smell the coffee all the way out in the hall and she has some apple strudel to go with it — Dad’s favourite.

  Though she is light as a tadpole, as fluff in breeze, the floor creaks as Shell moves towards the door.

  Again, Dad’s name. Then Kremski’s. “I can hear you in there.”

  Shell steps onto the fruit crate Kremski painted in stripes to look like a tiger, with beer caps for the eyes. Through the keyhole, denim blurs. Red hair all knit up into swirls.

  “You okay in there?”

  Even Paulina was a baby.

  At Shell’s knee, the doorknob slowly turns.

  “I won’t stay long.”

  Shell steps down and opens the door even less than the chain allows. Paulina’s red hair is done up in those French braids that Mum doesn’t know how to make, and she’s wearing a long blue-jean dress with a shawl that looks like
a fishing net, or the Mexican hammock before Dad hangs it up. The Enriched bag she cradles is going to make her front all greasy, and the strudel inside smells buttery sweet and fresh compared with pastry Shell finds on the counter Friday mornings.

  “My dad’s not here.”

  Paulina squints through the crack, leaning in as far as she can. “Oh?” Her voice is a squeak. “Your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  The sigh that comes through Paulina’s nose is wet and whistly. “Well, tell him Paulina came.” She reaches into her purse, squishing the pastry. “And give him this.” Shell takes the postcard from Paulina’s freckled fingers. Her light footsteps disappear down the stairs.

  The homeless man is back in front of the Canada Trust. He’s sipping takeout coffee and there’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear. When Paulina steps out onto the sidewalk, the sun bronzes her hair. Her braids are coiled up on top the way Mum showed Shell how to make a clay pot. She pulls her shawl around her shoulders and crosses Clayton. When she passes the beggar man, Paulina does not seem to see his outstretched hand. She goes as far as the movie theatre, and with a sweep of her shawl she rounds the corner. But then she stops and turns back. Maybe she needs some money, because she’s heading right for Canada Trust. But instead of going inside, she speaks to the beggar man, pointing up to Dad’s window. The beggar man looks up, squinting. His hemoglobin eyes meet Shell’s. But just for a second. Shell hops down from the ledge. Now everyone on Clayton is going to know Shell’s been spying. Well, Dad does it and Kremski too. When she peeks out the window again — head low, her eyes like rising suns above the chipped pane — Paulina is gone. The beggar man is leaning up against the Canada Trust, one foot propped on the wall behind him, toe pointing down. Between sips of coffee he reaches into the Enriched pastry bag and takes big squishy bites of apple strudel. And it’s true — Dad always says how well apple strudel goes with coffee. But that doesn’t make it his favourite.

  Shell looks down at the postcard Paulina handed to her. The picture shows rolling green hills and a purple sky and a stone cross with a circle in the middle. Celtic Wonder, Celtic Light: Watercolours by Paulina. She rips it up into tiny pieces and sprinkles it into Dad’s garbage bin.

  There is an Enriched bag the next Friday, but no meat or cheese pastries this time. Plus there’s an art show announcement stuck to the fridge just like the one Shell ripped up at Dad and Kremski’s studio. The opening is tonight.

  Dad toasts croissants for himself and Shell while Mum eats porridge. Shell says she wants porridge too.

  “No croissant?” Dad hands Shell a plate. A warm buttery pastry smiles up at her.

  “No.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Dad sets the plate in front of Shell’s crossed arms.

  Shell doesn’t want to eat that second-hand food. “We won’t go hungry,” she says. “Why does that lady think we want it?”

  “What lady?” Mum looks confused.

  Dad clicks his denture plate and spreads peanut butter on his pastry. “No wasting food in this house, Shell.”

  Shell flicks the croissant like she does marbles, sending the pastry clean off the plate. Though his dentures are extra scrubbed this morning, Dad’s voice rises: “Why are you so ungrateful?”

  Shell’s body ripples and her eyes get watery. The croissant, smiling in the middle of the table, begins to collapse.

  “You’re a hypocrite,” Shell whispers. “Worse than Bob Dylan, that’s you.”

  Dad freezes, his teeth about to sink into the nub of his second croissant. He always saves the end parts for last because they stand up best to peanut butter. Mum’s hands cup Shell’s shoulders from behind, pulling her away from the table. While Shell finds her bag, Mum puts her coat on over her pyjamas, tucking the cuffs into gardening rubbers.

  At the school gate, Mum takes a napkin from her pocket and stands there while Shell eats the croissant she had wrapped inside.

  “Don’t make things any worse than they are,” Mum says.

  Shell is hot inside. Their house on Cashel Street is so full of things she’s not supposed to notice. “You mean so Dad stops sleeping on the couch?”

  Mum looks across the schoolyard. Her eyes stay there. Kids are all running and laughing. Their mums and dads must hold hands and celebrate wedding anniversaries and don’t get mad over croissants like the one sticking in Shell’s teeth.

  The bell rings. Kids let out a final scream. Shell swallows the last of the dough and watches Mum disappear home. Her shoulders fall so forward now. After school, Shell will make Mum a back brace like the one in Deenie. There are always extra coat hangers and Dad must have some wood under the back porch.

  Dad’s good cowboy shirt is ironed and laid out on Mum and Dad’s bed. The black cowboy boots from the back of the closet are polished and the shower’s been running overtime since Dad was in the garden all day. Shell leans up against the bed. The shirt’s embroidery is silky beneath her fingers: wildflowers, blue birds, free-falling feathers of silver and gold. On his stool, Dad propped one of Paulina’s announcements next to his teeth. This announcement is different from the one on the fridge, for it has been folded in half and is still warm from Dad’s pocket. On the back, Paulina says she hopes Dad will come celebrate her big night.

  “Shell, come help please,” Mum calls, the smell of supper drifting up from below.

  Shell puts the postcard back but upside down. In the bathroom adjacent, the shower stops running. There is the squeak of a foot along the bottom of the tub. With Dad’s false teeth in her pocket, Shell — “Okay! Coming!” — goes down to help Mum.

  Mum is frying onions for the T-bone steaks that have been thawing on the counter. They’re eating early because Dad’s going out.

  “Where?”

  “Oh, just to that opening.” Mum’s hair keeps getting grey threads in it, and while she used to braid it with ribbons or sweep it up with combs, it falls now into a tent shape, from which her nose and lips just peek. Mum’s leg is a strong tree trunk in Shell’s arms. The side of Shell’s head feels poured into the curve between Mum’s knee and thigh like clay into a mould. Shell squeezes. Since it’s Friday, can she still stay up and listen to the hockey game, like with Dad? Mum points her paring knife at the cupboard beneath the sink.

  “Take out the compost and we’ll see.”

  Grey oatmeal jiggles at the top of the rubber pail and onion peel burns with stink. Dad’s coffee grounds are heavy, so Shell needs to hold the handle with both hands. The compost’s sheet metal cover is warm with sun and fermentation, and when Shell lifts it, heat and fat green flies burst out. Breathing through her mouth, Shell flips the pail and gives it a shake, thin orange liquid dripping down her wrist. She swats at the flies that have found the wet parts of her face. Before sliding the sheet metal back, Shell takes Dad’s denture plate from her pocket and tosses it in too. The white teeth sparkle next to the coffee grounds and blackened carrot peels while the plate’s roof looks extra silver. With the long-handed claw, Shell mixes the teeth into the compost. Now Dad will stay home with Mum tonight. Popcorn and beer — apple cider for Shell — hockey on the radio, or a play from England for Mum. Fridays were like that when they lived by the railroad tracks.

  Dad’s a caveman cowboy when he comes down for supper, hair wet and glasses steamed.

  Or else he’s a cowboy caveman.

  He can’t eat his steak until he finds his dentures. Mum offers to cut up his meat, but Dad ignores her. Mum puts pot lids over their plates while Dad goes back up to the bedroom. Likely the teeth just fell off the stool and got kicked under the bed.

  When Dad comes back, he takes Shell’s plate away.

  “It’s not funny, Shell. Kremski’s going to be here in twenty minutes.”

  Shell’s heels bounce as they hit the legs of her chair. When she’s told, she goes up to her room. Loud voices rumble below and then her door opens w
ithout a knock. Mum stands over Shell, who is flopped on her stomach on top of her bed. Why in the world would she take Dad’s teeth?

  “Come on, Shell.” Then Mum says it again: “Don’t make things worse.”

  Shell’s face gets hot and moist jammed into her pillow. A steam inside her rises up as Mum slides open every one of Shell’s drawers then shuffles through the pencils and drawing paper on the desk. After that, she pokes through the garbage in her can and then gets on her knees and looks under the bed.

  “Don’t you touch it!” Shell screams when Mum fishes out the horsehair button box. But Mum opens the lid anyway. She sighs and pokes around until Shell, standing above her, snatches it away. Mum says Shell is a mystery sometimes.

  “Why not just co-operate?”

  Kremski dings his bell when he rides up. While Mum and Dad open and close all the kitchen drawers and even pull the pots from the cupboards, Kremski talks to them from the dining room, his mouth full of Shell’s steak. Kremski didn’t know Dad had dentures and can’t get over that it was from a slapshot.

  “Really? You had to walk all the way into town to get to a dentist?” Kremski says as Dad gets into the Dart. Kremski waves at Shell, peeping down from her window. They both laugh, Kremski with his cigarette teeth and Dad as toothless as the hockey player Shell jokes is Booby Hull.

  Shell can’t go outside until she gives back Dad’s teeth. On Saturday afternoon, sixty-seven cars pass down Cashel Street — twenty-six pedestrians, seven dogs, and eleven bikes. Mum makes easy-to-eat soup for Dad. The back door clicks behind Mum each time she takes the compost out to the pile, further burying Shell’s treasure.

  As Shell eats squash soup from a tray at her desk, Mum sits on her bed and tells Shell how much a new denture plate will cost. “What, exactly, are you trying to prove?”

  Shell’s voice is husky from not speaking all day. She asks Mum to define a hypocrite.

  Mum says check the dictionary for yourself. “And look up stubborn obstinate uncooperative ungrateful daughter too.”