Algoma by Dani Couture Page A

his roach onto the ground and stepped on it. His eyes were red and glazed. “You should have told him about the ice. If you’d have told him about the ice, you’d still have him,” he said, and started to walk back into the bar.
    Wordlessly, Gaetan walked over and buried his fist in the man’s face. Surprised at what he’d done, he stumbled back, slipped, and fell onto the ground.
    The man stood there, his bottom lip badly split, drops of blood falling onto the snow. He sucked his bottom lip and winced. “Because that’ll bring him back, right?”
    Home was a fifteen-minute walk away if Gaetan took his time. Tonight, he walked in the opposite direction toward the middle of town. He wasn’t ready to go home. The last person he’d hit was his brother. And it used to be that the bar was his refuge. More and more, he was finding there was no safe place to be. No quiet.
    Darkness came fast this time of year. The street lights flickered on over head, one after the other casting yellow circles of light on the snow-covered sidewalk. The roads were mostly empty. Although the weather was warmer than it had been in past weeks, the air was damp and cold. A cold that ate at Gaetan’s bones, awakened old injuries. A shattered ankle from a slap shot in his teens. A dislocated elbow. A testy knee that threatened to give out entirely one day. He limped down the sidewalk, the snow squeaking under the soles of his boots. Hungry, Gaetan stepped into the closest convenience store and walked through the brightly lit aisles. He assessed the rows of shiny bags of chips and chose one. He tossed the bag onto the front counter and used the last of his change to pay for it. The cashier, a teenage girl with a tiny daisy tattooed on her left earlobe, scraped his change off the counter and tossed it into the till without counting it.
    “Have a nice day,” she said, her voice monotone.
    “Night,” he said. “Have a good night.”
    The girl rolled her eyes and turned back to the small television she’d been watching.
    Outside, Gaetan walked along the unshoveled sidewalk and ate his chips with his bare hands until it became too cold for him to do so. He tossed the half-finished bag into an empty garbage can that had been left at the curb and pulled on his cold leather gloves. As he walked he clenched and released his fists until the leather was warm and soft again.
    Before he knew he was even heading there, Gaetan found himself standing in front of Bay’s house. The lights were out except for the porch light. She wasn’t home, which made him both relieved and dismayed, although he didn’t know what he would have done had she been home. Bay’s house was like many in town: a stacked duplex. Someone lived upstairs, and someone below. Gaetan had always wondered who lived on the top floor of her house, the person willing to navigate the narrow iron staircase in winter. He had a hard enough time staying upright on solid ground.
    Gaetan and Algoma lived in one of the few detached houses in town, even if it was only a one-storey with a basement. When they had signed the papers, friends and family told them they were being ridiculous and extravagant for a newly married couple; however, the extra sacrifice had been worth it to not have someone living above them. For a few extra dollars on the mortgage every month, Gaetan didn’t have to hear another family’s footsteps in his head all day long, tramping on his thoughts, his sleep. If he was going to be kept awake by children, they would be his.
    He focused on Bay’s house again, which he thought could be nice if a few repairs were made: a fresh coat of paint, new windows, the porch replaced. The mailbox was hanging sideways from a single screw, Bay’s mail stacked in front of the door. Gaetan walked toward the house and climbed the three steps to the porch. He turned and faced the street like it was his house, to see what Bay saw every day; it was a mirror image of her side of the street. He