AT HOME MORNINGS to Pearl were the enemy. She treated those first few daylit hours as an adversary to tackle and vanquish and with the fierce resolve of a mad sergeant drove Gip and Elsie-Anne with bum smacks and handclaps from bed to breakfast and out the door. She seemed to be in three rooms at once, threatening, In the van in ten minutes or you’re walking to school! and when the garage lifted and Harry tore out of the driveway Kellogg invariably was left to drink the mug of untouched coffee she’d forgotten cooling on the counter.
So on Friday morning it was odd for Kellogg to be up with the kids, crouched over the camping stove with instant oatmeal dustily awaiting hydration in plastic bowls, while Pearl slept in the tent. Come on, Dad, let’s get a move on, said Gip, kicking his father’s feet, we have to get there early to get a frontrow spot. Remember yesterday? I don’t —
Hush now, said Kellogg, Mummy’s still sleeping, and he smoothed a bedheaded tuft of his son’s hair, it sprung up again in defiance.
Elsie-Anne sat at the picnic table in her pyjamas, her purse in her lap, a spoon in one hand and a blank expression on her face. From all over Lakeview Campground the sounds of other rousing families sifted through the trees: car engines growled, radios jangled, the patter of morning routines — dads, mums, kids, everyone starting their days, the big day, thought Kellogg, and the Pooles were part of it! Birds warbled and chirped, a gentle breeze came hissing up through the poplars from the lake, and if you listened close, beyond it, the shush of waves splashed the beach.
Kellogg only faintly remembered Pearl zipping herself into the sleeping bag beside him at some point after midnight — had he imagined the sickly smell of booze filling the tent? What if it had, she’d been with old friends, why not have a few? And so what if she slept in, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. They were on vacation. Maybe it meant things were going right.
Dad, whispered Gip, eyes urgent. We need to go.
Champ, hey, we’re a five-minute walk from the park. It’s barely gone eight. We’ll have some breakfast and when Mummy gets up —
Mummy? We can’t wait for Mummy.
No?
Do you want yesterday to happen again?
Kellogg stirred the water. Bubbles were just starting to percolate to its surface. Beneath it, the butane roared and blue flames battered the pot. No, he said. I don’t.
After breakfast and Kellogg had given Gip his meds and the dishes were washed up and everyone brushed their teeth at the communal tap (Not potable) and the kids put on clean clothes (No showers, Dad? asked Gip and Kellogg pulled a cap over his son’s jaunty hair and said, We’re on vacation!), it was almost nine and Pearl still hadn’t risen. Kellogg cocked an ear at the tent as a hiker might outside the cave of a hibernating bear. Gentle snores. He winked at his kids. Looks like Mummy tied one on last night.
Tied one what on, Dad? said Elsie-Anne.
Never you mind, Annie.
Should we untie her?
No.
Elsie-Anne, looking worried, pulled her purse over her head.
Along with Raven’s Illustrations: A Grammar Kellogg packed Gip’s knapsack with a blanket, snacks, juice, meds, sunscreen, mosquito repellent, a first-aid kit, a book of crossword puzzles, and waterproofs (the sky was cloudless), the guidebook got tucked in his backpocket. Then he wrote Pearl a note, wedged it under a pot lid on the picnic table, and told his kids, Okay, guys, Mummy’ll just have to meet us when she’s up. Annie, take that bag off your head, we’ve got to walk now.
His daughter emerged blinking. Familiar’s concerned about Mummy.
Dorkus, will you please shut up, Gip said. Mummy just got tied up. It’s not a big deal.
Shut up, Stuppa.
Mummy’s fine, said Kellogg. Though let’s not call each other names, huh?
Gip shouldered his knapsack, so stuffed the zipper puckered.
Kellogg looked at the tent. We’re doing the right thing, right, guys?
We’re doing the right thing, Dad, said Gip.
Oh, you think so, champ? Good. I think so too. I mean, ideally we’d all be together, but — she’ll meet up with us soon. Mummy, I mean. Right?
Right.
Okay! To People Park! Annie, come here, take my hand. And stop looking in your bag, you’ll fall down, you’ve got to watch where you’re going.
Here we come, Raven, said Gip, then deepened his voice: For tonight’s illustration will surely be a spectacle for the ages, one which nary a soul will soon if ever forget.
POP WAS TOO big for the couch, he’d opted for the floor, and there he was, right in the middle of the living room, a blanket clung to him like giftwrap, from his face came that sinusitic scraping. His clothes were everywhere, jeans draped over the recliner, a sock on the kitchen counter, another inside a stray teacup, the pale dead moth of his underwear splayed on the endtable — this Debbie’s eyes raced away from, a brownish tinge to the white cotton — and, by the door where he’d flung it the night before, his poncho, while in the closet dangled empty hangers. A high whiny fart arpeggiated a minor-C triad, Pop rolled onto his side, from within the sleeping bag came the gritty scritch of fingernails raking pubic hair, and then he was snoring again.
Even more than his sounds and things, it was above all Pop’s smell that had invaded: a musty, tangy odour reminiscent of stale cardboard boxes and humid cheese. Debbie pushed open a window. From outside came the growl of traffic, a train rumbled through Blackacres Station. Across the street, at the corner of E Street and Tangent 3, the owner of the laundrette was scrubbing her windows with a soapy mop: she’d been blackedup in the night.
Pop spluttered, turned, flopped an arm over his head, buried himself in his own body, and kept sleeping: snore, whistle, snore. Debbie edged by him to the bathroom, locked the door, dropped her robe, stepped straight into the shower.
When she emerged ten minutes later in a towel, Pop was at the stove, the element glowed orange beneath a pot of water. This is an alienated stove, he said, not turning to face her. I am habituated of one which flames.
Hang on, I have to get dressed, Debbie said, and slipped past into the bedroom, where Adine was sitting up in bed in her goggles.
Is he still out there.
He’s boiling eggs.
Amazing. We’ve taken in a refugee.
Refugee. You say it like it’s a joke, but that’s what he is. He’s homeless! What are we supposed to do, let him sleep on the street?
I mean, that’s his name, right? If he’d been born, say, Pop Apartment maybe —
Stop that. I need to lend him your housekeys. I mean, if you’re not going out today. .
What.
Come on, said Debbie. Just for the night. Maybe Sunday too. But on Monday we’re going to figure out what’s going on and get him home.
Great, said Adine, flatly.
You okay? said Debbie. She sat on the bed, put her hand on Adine’s leg.
But behind those goggles, it was impossible to tell what was happening.
CALUM JOLTED UPRIGHT, the garbage bags taped over the mattress crinkled. His sleep had been deep and leaden, coming out of it now felt akin to being chiselled from a concrete slab. At some point in the night the Hand must have released him, he hadn’t even stirred — anything could have happened and on he would have slumbered. On her empty side of the bed was only an apostrophe-shaped impression, where her body had curled against Calum’s. The supply closet’s only supply was a headless mop leaning in the corner. The dusty shelves were empty, the air stale, the stripe of light under the door suggested a world Calum wasn’t sure he had a place in.