Next Year, for Sure Read online

  They’re crossing Kitchener when they see the little girl alone on the wide sidewalk. She can’t be more than three. They call out to her as they approach.

  Are you lost, honey? Emily says.

  The child backs away, off the sidewalk and in between two parked cars. Kathryn and Emily stop. The child regards them with wet, watchful eyes.

  Emily tries again: Sweetie, do you live in one of these houses?

  The child says nothing.

  She might not speak English, Kathryn says.

  Emily gestures with one hand—big, slow scoops of air, drawing the child toward them—but the girl inches back, almost into the road.

  Kathryn says, Aisha, I need everyone to be on the sidewalk right now.

  The child seems to consider this.

  Nobody goes home until we’re all on the sidewalk, Kathryn says. Do you understand, Aisha?

  The child nods.

  Then whenever you’re ready, Kathryn says, and sits down smartly on the sidewalk. Emily drops down beside her and pushes Cornelius’s butt to the ground.

  —

  Once on the sidewalk, the child tries to disappear into Cornelius.

  Kathryn and Emily ask all the questions you might ask, but Aisha says nothing. She nods yes sometimes, but never no, so it’s hard to completely trust the yeses.

  Do you have your phone? Kathryn asks Emily.

  It’s charging, Emily says. She looks guilty.

  Kathryn’s is shoved between the sofa cushions at home.

  They ring doorbells and listen to the chimes through the door. Sometimes dogs bark from inside, but no one answers.

  Should we take her back to the park? Emily says.

  Kathryn doesn’t think they should move her from this spot.

  I’ll go, Kathryn says. She says, Aisha, I’m going to go find your mommy. And you and Emily and Doggie are going to sit right here, okay?

  Aisha nods, and holds one of Cornelius’s floppy ears up over her face.

  Kathryn runs the four blocks. Not all-out runs, but hard and fast. It feels good. She imagines what she will say to the frenzied mother, what words she will use to cut through the panic and get her to listen and come. God, it feels so good to run right now. Why does it feel so good?

  The park is abandoned when Kathryn gets there. The soccer guys are gone. Kathryn stands very still and listens for the mother’s far-off voice, but there is nothing to hear except her own laboured breathing. Kathryn calls out to the woman in the only way she can think—she yells the name Aisha, loud and long, until her throat is raw.

  —

  When Kathryn gets back to their little piece of sidewalk, rain is crashing down. Emily has wrapped her jacket around the girl, who is crying now.

  His place is just a few blocks away, Emily says, indicating Cornelius. We could use their phone.

  Kathryn looks around for some sort of cover, or pay phone, or human being in this city of one million.

  Aisha, Kathryn says, do you want to come home with us?

  The child cries harder.

  Kathryn crouches down before her. Do you want to see Doggie’s house? Kathryn says, and Aisha nods. Kathryn boosts the girl up onto her hip and stands up. This seems like a terrible idea, Kathryn says.

  I know, says Emily.

  And this is what we’re doing? We’re doing this?

  Emily nods. She is shivering now.

  Okay, says Kathryn. And they run.

  —

  Emily calls the police while Kathryn tries to find something dry for Aisha to wear. The child’s teeth are chattering and she is whimpering, but she has cried herself out. Cornelius has put himself in his overnight crate and watches them doubtfully through the open door.

  It is a thoroughly childless house. The closets are all silk and dry-cleaning bags and nothing to fit a frozen toddler. Kathryn rummages through dresser drawers and finds, at last, a thick cable-knit sweater that reaches down to Aisha’s toes.

  Better? Kathryn says, and Aisha nods. Or at least Kathryn thinks it’s Aisha. It is slowly occurring to Kathryn that they just took this child, this child they assume is Aisha. They picked her up off the street and carried her away.

  The police are on their way, Emily says.

  They sit on the living room floor with Aisha and try to improvise toys out of empty Tupperware containers and napkin rings. Aisha receives these items with some indifference, but after a while they are all three engaged in a slow, complex game, the rules of which are unclear.

  Is there anything warm we can give her? Kathryn says. The girl’s lips are blue. The kitchen is largely decorative, with more cookbooks than actual food, but Emily turns up a can of pumpkin from the cupboard and a can of coconut milk, and she microwaves these together with some maple syrup, which Kathryn thinks is brilliant. They all eat from the same big bowl and Aisha laughs.

  —

  Right away, the police do not like them. The first two officers scold them for not having their cell phones.

  You should always have it with you, the bigger one says, like it’s the law. Two more officers arrive. They are filling up the room with their guns.

  Now which one of you lives here, says the one cop.

  Neither of us, says Emily, I just walk the dog.

  So whose house is this?

  Emily doesn’t know their names. Does she know how to reach them? No. Does she know where they work? No, she does not.

  Do these people know you’re in their house right now? he says.

  Basically, says Emily.

  And when we find them, they’re going to confirm that?

  They don’t know who I am, but yes.

  He writes something in his book.

  And what’s the relation here, he says, his pen waggling back and forth between Emily and Kathryn.

  She’s a friend, Emily says.

  Meaning what?

  We just…know each other.

  How do you know each other?

  She’s dating my boyfriend, Kathryn says.

  At this point, the police move them to separate rooms.

  —

  Kathryn is parked in the kitchen and made to feel she did the wrong thing. But she knows that’s not true. We did the right thing, she says to the young cop who she supposes is guarding her. He looks away.

  Eventually, another police car arrives with two more cops and the distraught woman from the park. Kathryn can see her through the kitchen window coming up the walk. She looks like she has been broken open and then reassembled from pieces. Kathryn hears, but does not see, Aisha running into her mother’s arms.

  After several minutes, the woman is brought over to take a good look at Kathryn, and then Emily, but all she says is, I do not know these people, and walks away. Kathryn can hear Emily in the next room, calling after the woman.

  We saw you in the park, Emily says.

  The woman and Aisha are taken away, the girl still wearing these people’s sweater. The second police car leaves soon after. The house gradually empties until it is just the first two officers. Kathryn can hear their radios hissing in the living room.

  Hey Emily, she calls.

  Yeah?

  We did the right thing.

  You were great, Emily says.

  Hey in there, the one cop says, but he doesn’t add anything else.

  Kathryn looks at the dirty dishes on the counter, the orange glop congealing on the bowl, their three spoons. She wonders if she could wash them while she waits.

  Hey Emily, she says.

  Yeah?

  You want to get sushi after?

  The police hate them.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ahimsa

  The last time Chris saw Kathryn in this skirt, she was slow dancing with gay men. It was at Pat and Michael’s wedding, late into the DJ’s final set, and Chris sat with their coats, admiring her. She was amazing. He couldn’t believe he got to go home with her.

  The time before that, it was his sister’s wedding, where Kathryn taugh
t his step-nieces how to fold napkins into perfect white roses. He remembers easing the skirt off her later that night in the hotel room and sliding it onto a clothes hanger.

  It seems a little nice, this skirt, for dinner at Emily’s house, but then Chris is wearing his best sweater. It feels like an occasion.

  Oh Emily, there is so much I have to say.

  —

  It’s not Emily who answers the door.

  I’m Kendra, says the not-Emily. She offers her hand and pulls them into the steamy house.

  What Chris knows about Kendra: Scary-smart, at least about some things; can be funny; sometimes hurts Emily’s feelings; mother of Zachary, age five.

  Our little Emily’s on the phone, Kendra says, and then she sort of grimaces. Don’t worry, she says, we’ll take good care of you. Kendra holds out her hand for their jackets. There are a dozen coat hooks on the wall, jammed with coats, but then there are two empty hooks, right together at the end, as if waiting for Chris and Kathryn.

  Chris notices a small head peeking around the corner of the vestibule.

  And who is this? Chris says. He knows it is Zachary.

  What Chris knows about Zachary: Threw up an entire pumpkin pie; likes riddles; sneaks into Emily’s makeup, which she keeps mainly for him now; the kind of kid who makes you want to have kids, according to Emily.

  Zachary, Kendra says, can you come say hello?

  Hello, says Zachary from behind the corner.

  Chris says, Hey Zachary, how old do you want to be when you grow up?

  Twenty, says Zachary. No, wait. A hundred. And then he starts to think on it.

  Chris thought up this question last week when Emily first invited them over to dinner. I want you to meet my people, she’d said. Chris thought he would have to convince Kathryn, but Emily had already called her. They call each other sometimes now, Kathryn and Emily. Of course I’m coming, Kathryn said when Chris asked. I told you I’m going to be part of this thing.

  —

  Kendra gives them the tour and Zachary comes along to make sure she does it right. It’s clearly a well-rehearsed number. It takes the better part of an hour.

  Kathryn is full of questions about the workings of the house: How long have they lived here? Who owns the building? How did they all find each other?

  But Chris is not interested in their rain barrels or their walk-in pantry of preserves. What interests Chris is which room has a phone cord running to it, stretched across the dark hallway and pinched against the door frame. What interests Chris are Emily’s clothes hanging on a drying rack, the shirt she wore on their date. He can call it a date now. What interests Chris is the chore chart with Emily’s name printed neatly beside UPSTAIRS BATHROOM. There’s a checkbox for every week and not all of them are checked. Oh Emily, let me do your chores. I will come while your housemates sleep and every surface will shine.

  —

  The tour culminates in the kitchen where Naveed is worrying over several pots of food with a single spoon.

  What Chris knows about Naveed: Father of Zachary; absorbs five newspapers every morning; leaves little notes around the house, ostensibly written by the cat, Maslow; fell asleep at the last house meeting.

  I hope you like food, Naveed says.

  It’s my favourite, Kathryn says.

  Chris watches them talk like this about what smells so good and how you make it and here try this. It’s hard to imagine Kathryn being with someone else, though that is part of the deal, theoretically anyway. It feels to Chris like a sleeper clause, because Kathryn says she can’t think who it would be. And Chris can’t either. The only other person Chris has ever seen Kathryn with is Geoffrey, the memory of which makes him sick. Chris tries to think of who would be good enough to be with Kathryn. Someone kind and gentle and funny and serious. Maybe Harold, from Harold and Maude.

  —

  Is there anything I can do? Chris asks Naveed.

  Brilliant, Naveed says, and steers Chris to a large pot of beets to peel and slice. The bulbs still seethe with latent heat. Chris has to keep plunging them into cold water every few seconds so as not to get burned, and still he gets burned. The skins slough off under his touch, his fingers turning a deep purply red. He cuts each bulb slowly and perfectly.

  Oh Emily, I couldn’t say anything until it was for sure, but now I need to say and ask everything.

  —

  For weeks, Chris and Emily have talked about everything except Chris and Emily. She calls him most days at work during his lunch break and the hour runs away without either of them mentioning this thing that might be happening between them. Even when the negotiations at home were going well, it felt disloyal to discuss them with Emily. Also, Chris was scared that if he said out loud what might be possible, what might be taking shape between him and Kathryn, that the gods would notice his happiness and turn it upside down.

  But now it’s decided and everything is possible. They can be almost anything they want, Chris and Emily, and what does she want them to be? He has an acute yearning for things to be defined and declared.

  —

  Dinner is ready and Emily is still on the phone. Naveed takes an old, heavy brass bell from a hook on the wall and clangs it three times.

  Ten-minute warning, Naveed explains.

  Chris has heard this ten-minute warning through the phone more than once.

  An older woman appears from somewhere carrying flowers.

  Oh good, you’re here, she says to Chris and Kathryn and gives them both long hugs. This has to be Miriam.

  What Chris knows about Miriam: Arrested in the nineteen-eighties for shaking a dead fish at a cop; did mushrooms on her sixtieth birthday; has had a song written about her, and several poems; works three days a week as an addictions counsellor.

  Miriam suggests they all move to the living room. Chris and Kathryn are given the loveseat. Everyone sits and they ask each other getting-acquainted questions. It’s like meeting your in-laws for the first time, Chris thinks, but do these people know who he is to Emily? How much does she tell them?

  Oh by the way, Miriam announces, Yvonne’ll be here for dinner. My girlfriend, she adds for Chris and Kathryn.

  Then Kendra remembers that someone named Raditch might or might not be coming, too.

  How do you live like this, Chris wonders. How can you plan a meal with people showing up without warning? Are there even that many chairs? It feels impossibly chaotic.

  —

  Naveed sounds the old bell again and everyone starts circling the table and sitting down in what might be their regular seats. Chris tries to divine where Emily will sit. A large bearded man emerges from the basement and seats himself at the head of the table, or one of the heads.

  Moss, this is Chris and Kathryn, Kendra says. Emily’s friends.

  The man turns to them placidly and does a little nod with his head.

  What Chris knows about Moss: Eats the whole apple, core and all; spent six months in the Arctic, or Antarctic; installed a solar water heating system on the roof, out of pocket, and single-handedly, without saying anything to anyone.

  Moss, Kendra says, Kathryn here is the one who built that dish rack that Emily was telling us about.

  It’s impossible to tell if this makes any impression on Moss, but Kendra persists.

  Could you, maybe after dinner, talk to her about it?

  I imagine I could, Moss says.

  Moss has a truck, Zachary says.

  —

  Zachary wants to say grace.

  Can we keep it short? Naveed says.

  Zachary delivers a long, free-form benediction in which he mostly talks about his day and tells God a joke he made up. Kathryn squeezes Chris’s hand under the table. He’s glad she’s here. If she wasn’t, he would want to go home and tell her about this, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  In the middle of this communion, Miriam’s girlfriend, Yvonne, lets herself in the front door and tiptoes to her seat. Chris wonders how the house decides who g
ets to have a key. Is there a meeting? Will Chris get a key?

  There is still no sign of Emily.

  —

  Naveed gives everyone a quick rundown of the food—what has meat, what has wheat—and then plates are going around.

  Should I go cut the phone cord? Kendra says. She makes her fingers into scissors and snips at the air.

  Be kind, says Miriam. It’s her brother, I think.

  The room is still for a moment.

  I’m sorry, says Kendra to no one in particular. I thought she was talking to someone else.

  The last thing Chris had heard about Emily’s brother, Stephen, is that his phone was not in service and nobody knew how to find him. Stephen disappears sometimes, for a couple days, a week maybe, but always washes up at someone’s door, dehydrated and half starved. But it’s been a few weeks now, months possibly, and Emily is more worried than usual. He’s so smart, Emily said, he just loses the will.

  Kathryn asks what everyone does for a living. The housemates are all very impressive with their socially responsible jobs, but Chris resents them for sitting here eating and laughing while Emily is up there suffering. He wants to make a plate of food for her and carry it up to her room. He wants to rub her shoulders while she listens to her sad brother and be there when he hangs up so she doesn’t have to be alone with the dial tone.

  —

  Kathryn is asking about the name, Ahimsa, and if it’s a religious thing.

  The housemates are delighted by the notion that they could be taken for a religious community, but no, none of them had anything to do with the name.

  If I was anything, I’d be Quaker, says Naveed.

  I’m solely carbon-based, Kendra says.

  Old Moss here is a mystic, someone offers.

  Moss does not look up from his food.

  And then Emily is there in the room, barefoot and swollen-eyed. She smiles wanly at everyone. Miriam stands and envelops her. Kendra, from where she sits, strokes Emily’s back.

  What’s sad? Zachary wants to know.