February by Lisa Moore

reach. She drew a chair over and climbed on it and got the plates. I never saw the sun, she said.
    John knew he should have helped her but he was thinking about Jane’s phone call. He was thinking about Jane hanging up and how he had no way to get in touch with her.
    The woman put three plates on the table along with forks and knives, and she lifted the lid on a pot of basmati rice. A huge billowing of steam lifted up. The lid was hot and it clattered into the sink.
    Just watching all day for worms, the woman said. The stink of fish. And then my throat. The British guy on top of me, his hands around my throat. Holding my throat together.
    The school counsellor, it seemed, had wanted John to know he was right to be afraid. There were very real things in the world to be afraid of. He had taught John some lucid dreaming techniques. These will help you cope, he’d said.
    There’s more, John had told the counsellor. He shifted in his chair, one leg kicking the desk in front of him rhythmically. She does stuff.
    Sexual stuff, the counsellor had said.
    It’s terrible, John had said.
    You orgasm, the counsellor had asked.
    Yeah, that, John had said.
    I hope you like ginger and chili, the woman said. This is a dish with lots of hot spice.
    Where’s the father, John asked. The little girl’s father?
    I don’t have a father, the little girl said. She turned a page of the comic book.
    When I was in Iceland, John said. It was twenty-four solid hours of light. We never slept.
    . . . . .
    Joke, 1981
    CAL WOKE TO somebody hammering on his door. Men shouting the rig was going down. She’s going down. He leapt out of bed to hit the light switch and his feet were wet. Water rushing under the door and more water through the door frame and the door was jammed. Something was holding the door shut and he banged on it with his fists and must have hit the lamp because the light was rocking on the bedside table, and he shouted, Let me out, there’s a man in here, let me out.
    Cal told Helen about it over a plate of spareribs. The door gave and there were the boys, killing themselves laughing. They were doubled over. They had poured a bucket of water through the crack and held the door shut, listening to him bawling.
    There’s a man in here, there’s a man in here .
    Killing themselves, Cal said. Laughing on the other side of the door.
    Helen put the plate in front of him. She had parboiled the spareribs and then dumped a full bottle of barbecue sauce over them and left the ribs in the oven on low heat for the whole day, and the house was full of the smell. It was his favourite meal.
    Often it was just the two of them in the kitchen and Helen would have a beer. Cal would look down at the plate before he touched it. His arms resting on the table.
    It looked like he was giving thanks, Helen thought, but he was taking the time to recognize that the floor was solid under his feet.
    The rig was big enough that the men could not feel the water moving beneath them, but they felt a marked difference in their balance when they came on shore. Cal would let the plate sit in front of him and he would notice how solid the floor was, and the table and the house and the ground beneath the house.
    Then he would pat down the mashed potato with his fork. He always started that way, patting the potato, rallying the peas into one corner with the side of the fork.
    Helen made sure to feed the kids early on the first night Cal was off the rig. The children would practically knock him over when he came through the door. They’d tackle him. John climbing onto Cal’s neck, Cathy with her arms and legs wrapped around his leg, Lulu flat on the floor clutching his ankle. He’d stagger into the living room with them clinging to him. Or he’d come through the door and they’d keep watching TV . They’d move towards him with their heads turned towards the TV . They would keep watching and they’d hug Cal loosely without even knowing what they were doing.
    There had