July
By Rhonda Parkinson
She went to the baker’s. To buy him
some bread…the classic Mother
Goose rhyme runs through Linda’s head as she walks to the C-Train station. It’s
too beautiful a morning to waste pondering serious matters. Actually, it’s
exactly the sort of July morning that promises a sweaty ride home in a cramped
C-Train car, the air thickened with heat. But for now the day is perfect.
She
turns onto a sidewalk that cuts between two strip malls. Linda walks faster,
enjoying the sound of her stilettos clicking the concrete. Strange, how it
gives her a sense of being in control.
As
she passes a white wooden garbage bin enclosure, there’s a flash in her
peripheral vision. Linda jerks her head
left. Her breath stops in her throat. He’s thin and sickly, with red scabs
pocking his face and pallid lips. His Blues Brothers T-shirt is ridden with
holes.
“Can
you spare any money?” Yellowed fingers tug nervously at the waistband of grimy
sweatpants. “Just enough for a coffee…maybe a pack of smokes?”
Linda
feels her stomach tighten as she sees the purplish-blue lines snaking down both
forearms. She knows what her husband would say: “Don’t. You’re just paying for the
next fix.”
She
looks over his shoulder at the buildings behind them, considers offering to buy
him breakfast at Tim Hortons.
He
reads her gaze correctly. The sticky sweet smell of men’s cologne envelops her
as he leans closer. AXE Body Spray – she remembers its strong lime scent. The
sour, rotting cabbage smell underneath is new though.
“I could really
use the smokes,” he says in a tight voice.
Surrendering,
she reaches into her purse and removes two twenties. Her throat clutches as she
sees the way he can’t stop himself from grasping at the bills.
“Thanks
so much.” He already sounds calmer. Counting the minutes until he can escape
from her, Linda thinks. Shoot up.
She
stares at him. “You know you can come home.”
“Nah,
that ain’t gonna happen.” He throws a quick glance at another man huddled against
the enclosure’s wooden wall, his face half-hidden underneath a hoodie. He turns
back to her. A feral flash comes into his eyes. “I could use some money for
clothes, though.”
“Dad
would be happy to go shopping with you.”
But
he’s already turning away: “Maybe. Sometime.”
Linda
watches the two men leave, her son muscling ahead, rubber sandals crushing the
pavement. He has somewhere to go, now. Reaching the road, he looks back as if a
thought just occurred to him.
“See ya.”
Linda
forces a tight smile. He’d been waiting for her, she realizes. He knew she
would choose to walk to the train station on such a perfect day, knew that
caught off guard and without his father’s tough love reinforcement, she’d never
be able to say no.
Further
ahead, the harsh clang of the train station’s crossing guard bells is like
taunting laughter.
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