Algoma by Dani Couture Page B

half expected to see a carbon copy of himself standing on the porch opposite, but there was no one.
    Gaetan turned to the mailbox. He held up the unscrewed end to where it should be secured, and let it drop again. It swung back and forth like a pendulum clock. He stepped back and looked down for the missing screw and found it wedged in the crack between the house and porch. Using the Leatherman he kept in his coat pocket—a gift from Algoma for their first anniversary—he screwed the mailbox back in place and tightened the other screw. Satisfied with his repair job, he looked around the porch. What else could he fix? He absently kicked one of the banisters, but stopped when he heard steps coming up the sidewalk.
    “Gaetan? What are you doing here?”
    Bay stood at the bottom of the stairs. Her glossy dark brown hair was pulled up into a loose twist. She never wore hats, even if it was dark and there was no one to see her.
    Gaetan stuttered something about being in the area.
    Bay looked around. “Where’s your car?”
    “I walked.”
    “Ah,” Bay smiled. “This is the third time in a month I’ve found you ‘walking.’”
    “I fixed your mailbox,” Gaetan said. “It was broken.”
    “It was and now it’s not. Look at that. Thank you.” Bay put her key in the lock. “Do you want to come in for a drink? You know, to say thanks?”
    Gaetan shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I should get to work. I’m feeling better.”
    “You weren’t feeling well?” Bay asked, still holding the door open.
    From where he stood, Gaetan could see Bay’s couch at the end of the hallway, a pair of grey slippers tucked under the end table. He was beginning to sweat despite the cold. “Yes. No, everything’s fine.” He ran down the stairs, waved without turning around, and hurried down the street like he was running away from something.
    Bay let the door close and walked down the porch stairs. From her walkway, she watched Gaetan appear and disappear as he passed under the streetlights, like a flickering night light on the verge of burning out.
    Algoma pulled into the driveway, car full of groceries, and wrinkled her nose. There was a six-pack of beer sitting in the snow on the porch. She parked, got out of the car, and walked toward the bottles. A white envelope was taped to the cardboard handle, Gaetan written on it in a loose feminine handwriting she immediately recognized. She ripped the envelope open and read the card: G. Now the mailman doesn’t hate me anymore. Thank you. Feel free to paint the place next time you’re around. There’s dinner in it for you. B.
    After a lifetime of knowing her sister, Algoma knew she could neither compete with nor deter Bay. It would only make things worse. All she could do was run interference and hope that her sister, as she almost always did, would grow bored and move on to the next thing.
    Algoma stuffed the envelope and card into her coat pocket and picked up the six-pack. The beer bottles were an imported brand she didn’t recognize. Green bottles that clanked as she carried them into the backyard where she hid them behind the cord of wood behind the shed. By the time Gaetan found the beer, the bottles would be frozen and broken, shards of glass buried in the snow.
    ______________
    6:01 p.m. -22°C. No wind.
Furnace rattling like fluid-filled lungs.
    “We’re going camping. Pack up.”
    “Um, Mom. It’s minus a million outside.”
    “Pack up.”
    It was late Friday afternoon and Ferd thought his mother had finally lost it.
    “Dad!” he yelled. “Mom says we’re going camping. You know how to build an igloo?” He thought it was joke, but would find out soon that it was not.
    Outside, snow was piled up high in huge drifts on either side of the street, every corner capped with a cold white pyramid. The details of the neighbourhood had been gradually erased as snow had risen like water over curbs, planters, and porches. Toys that had been left out on the lawn before