Maxine by Claire Wilkshire

I’m not making a commitment here, OK? Why don’t you go look in the brown paper bag on the kitchen table.
    Maxine?
    Mm.
    I’m only asking, but did they have lemon squares?
    Dave has to buy Kyle skates for school. Maxine rarely sees Dave. Mostly they just say a quickHi as Kyle is passed fromone set of eyes to another. She’s been to the Larsens’ for Sunday dinner, Christmas Eve—the invitations she was unequal to the task of refusing.What she knows is what she has observed, and what Barb has told her. His voice is deep and Maxine sometimes has the urge to say Ssshh! as if a baby were asleep in the house. He works long hours downtown. Maxine doesn’t know any more about the investigation at work. She wonders if Barb could be exaggerating. Barb does tend to see things in black and white, and to have strong feelings about them. Maybe it’s amisunderstanding. Dave grew up in a small town where his dad had a store. They sold tools, seed, fertilizer, and other supplies to people like Barb’s parents, and indeed to Barb’s parents, and when it came time for high school in a slightly larger town nearby, all the young people in the area took the bus there together. The first year he pulled her ponytail. By the time they graduated he was carrying her books. They waited a long time for Kyle to come along and it was a tough birth.
    Today Dave’s a little late and Karen has already come to collect Maxine when he arrives. The three adults and Kyle stand in the street for a brief conversation. Maxine introduces Dave and Karen, and then Dave puts an arm around his son’s shoulders and draws him away. Maxine and Karen start down the street.
    Not from here, are they? says Karen.
    Prairies.
    That guy, his voice. It sounds familiar. What does he do? Karen has a bionic ear. She sings barbershop and doesn’t forget an accent.
    I can never remember the name of it. Some investment thing downtown.
    I don’t know his face but I’ve heard that voice.
    Go on. Mainlanders all sound like that.
    It would be nice to know if you were normal. If there were some easy test like putting a normalcy thermometer under your tongue and watching the red line creep into the range that says NORMAL in simple black caps, unadorned and reassuring. You could just carry on. But if the red line didn’t stop there, if it carried on into the ABERRANT zone, requiring who knows what, or maybe even worse, maybe into FUTILE... It would be better not to have had the thermometer then.
    The good thing about being hungover is that the remorse it produces may trigger significant change. Ever since her headache in the supermarket in December, Maxine has clocked in and out, ignored the phone, worked a concentrated five hours a day, evenings and weekends free. At first it’s weird, artificial, and excruciating, but gradually she’s gotten used to it. At the moment Maxine is on a lunch break and the guy in the pet store is telling her about dogs. Maxine waded through thigh-deep snow on the footpath that draws you in behind some long, thin back yards and spits you out into the Basilica parking lot. In the distance, on top of the Southside Hills, she could see evergreens outlined against the fragile winter sun like a chain of paper-doll trees. She came down the steep hill to the pet store to ask about a dog, and the guy has told her a number of things already and every timeMaxine looks on the verge of leaving the store he thinks of something else that could be useful. Often, what he has to say takes the form of a question. He is asking about Maxine’s life so he can make an informed assessment of how a dog would fit into it. He leans on the store counter and looks earnestly pleasant.
    So if it’s mostly because you want a reason to get out and that, well great, because he’d need a walk every day. You can take snowshoes if necessary or, you know, the trailer park is clear all winter, now that’s a nice