other Gulf war. Saddam. Bush. Baker. April Glaspie. Kuwait. Oil. Everyone at work an instant expert, everyone a hawk, officers and inmates alike, cheers for carnage caused by smart bombs.
But mostly I remember a hotel room on a summer evening. Iam on the bed, remote in hand watching the long columns of American soldiers in a desert, flashes like lightning in a distant sky. And charred wreckage on a highway, blackened shrivelled bodies; a reporter breathless, face distorted by a too-close camera lens in a too-small room somewhere in Baghdad. Turning to Anna:
Do you believe this?
Anna nodding:
Someone had to do it. Look at what he was doing to his own people. And then what he did to Kuwait. All those dead babies
.
I remember it so clearly: that hotel room in Montreal during
le Festival de Jazz
. She was just out of the shower, her hair still wet. And I said:
Speaking of babies
. And the towel falling to the floor.
We can talk about our babies some other time
, she said, walking toward me slowly. But just us, for now.
And the TV screen in sudden darkness, ghost images of death decaying.
The appliance store was busy with the Christmas shopping surge. Couples murmuring in front of stereo equipment, dishwashers and refrigerators. “They’re still working out the bugs in the flat screens,” the salesman said. “This one here’s a tried and true. All you’ll need. And we can have it down there this afternoon. There’s a truck going out in a couple of hours.”
The satellite man came the next morning and in spite of myself I felt a mild elation as I studied the impenetrable instruction book. Even the dog seemed interested.
“I hate to admit it, Birch, but this sucker is going to transform our lives.”
——
I hadn’t been to the store in days and knew there would be a backlog of papers there, and questions. People around here notice absence, alteration in routine, which is probably a good thing. Charlie didn’t have a routine anyone could follow and so he died alone, quietly decomposing until he was discovered thanks to someone else’s routine—some good neighbour looking in, making sure that he was eating. Only to find he definitely wasn’t. “We gotta stop thinking about Charlie,” I said as I snapped the leash on. I removed it once we were inside the car, engine running. He sat up straight in the front seat. Briefly I wondered about the seat belt, then secured it just to stop the nagging buckle-up alarm. Birch’s mouth was open, smiling I imagined, as he watched the passing landscape.
“Good boy,” I said, rubbing his neck when we stopped in front of the store. “You wait here.” But the moment I opened the car door, he was across me in a bound, and out, trotting down the road toward Caddy’s place. I watched him go, a mix of anger and resentment rising. Fidelity and dogs? A myth like everything I’ve ever heard about fidelity. Go and be damned, I said silently.
But at the door I looked down the road after him and to my surprise he was heading back toward me at a gallop. He arrived, panting, paused briefly at the bottom of the steps, head cocked, then as I opened the door he bounded up and followed me inside.
Collie’s business partner, Mary, was behind the counter. “Hey, look who’s here,” she cried.
“That’s Caddy’s dog,” said a man I recognized, the name Lester floating to the surface—Caddy’s brother. And I remembered the September courthouse scene, the struggle with the Mounties. “Lester?” I said.
And he nodded. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
Then there was a long silence.
“I heard she went away,” said Mary.
“The daughter in Windsor,” Lester said. “Rosalie. Maymie’s mother.”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked Mary, as she loaded newspapers on the counter. It had been about five days since the last visit. “Thanks for saving them.”
“Noooo problem,” said Mary.
“That’s nice, you looking after
But mostly I remember a hotel room on a summer evening. Iam on the bed, remote in hand watching the long columns of American soldiers in a desert, flashes like lightning in a distant sky. And charred wreckage on a highway, blackened shrivelled bodies; a reporter breathless, face distorted by a too-close camera lens in a too-small room somewhere in Baghdad. Turning to Anna:
Do you believe this?
Anna nodding:
Someone had to do it. Look at what he was doing to his own people. And then what he did to Kuwait. All those dead babies
.
I remember it so clearly: that hotel room in Montreal during
le Festival de Jazz
. She was just out of the shower, her hair still wet. And I said:
Speaking of babies
. And the towel falling to the floor.
We can talk about our babies some other time
, she said, walking toward me slowly. But just us, for now.
And the TV screen in sudden darkness, ghost images of death decaying.
The appliance store was busy with the Christmas shopping surge. Couples murmuring in front of stereo equipment, dishwashers and refrigerators. “They’re still working out the bugs in the flat screens,” the salesman said. “This one here’s a tried and true. All you’ll need. And we can have it down there this afternoon. There’s a truck going out in a couple of hours.”
The satellite man came the next morning and in spite of myself I felt a mild elation as I studied the impenetrable instruction book. Even the dog seemed interested.
“I hate to admit it, Birch, but this sucker is going to transform our lives.”
——
I hadn’t been to the store in days and knew there would be a backlog of papers there, and questions. People around here notice absence, alteration in routine, which is probably a good thing. Charlie didn’t have a routine anyone could follow and so he died alone, quietly decomposing until he was discovered thanks to someone else’s routine—some good neighbour looking in, making sure that he was eating. Only to find he definitely wasn’t. “We gotta stop thinking about Charlie,” I said as I snapped the leash on. I removed it once we were inside the car, engine running. He sat up straight in the front seat. Briefly I wondered about the seat belt, then secured it just to stop the nagging buckle-up alarm. Birch’s mouth was open, smiling I imagined, as he watched the passing landscape.
“Good boy,” I said, rubbing his neck when we stopped in front of the store. “You wait here.” But the moment I opened the car door, he was across me in a bound, and out, trotting down the road toward Caddy’s place. I watched him go, a mix of anger and resentment rising. Fidelity and dogs? A myth like everything I’ve ever heard about fidelity. Go and be damned, I said silently.
But at the door I looked down the road after him and to my surprise he was heading back toward me at a gallop. He arrived, panting, paused briefly at the bottom of the steps, head cocked, then as I opened the door he bounded up and followed me inside.
Collie’s business partner, Mary, was behind the counter. “Hey, look who’s here,” she cried.
“That’s Caddy’s dog,” said a man I recognized, the name Lester floating to the surface—Caddy’s brother. And I remembered the September courthouse scene, the struggle with the Mounties. “Lester?” I said.
And he nodded. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
Then there was a long silence.
“I heard she went away,” said Mary.
“The daughter in Windsor,” Lester said. “Rosalie. Maymie’s mother.”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked Mary, as she loaded newspapers on the counter. It had been about five days since the last visit. “Thanks for saving them.”
“Noooo problem,” said Mary.
“That’s nice, you looking after
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