The Cool Light of Dawn

Out of the cloud of dust sped Gord's pick-up. He skidded to a stop near the barn and yelled in my direction.
"This where you put him?"
"Good Morning, Gord. Yeah, that's where he is." I chuckled to myself.
Gord swung the door open and disappeared inside. Then all you could hear was the yelping of his seventeen year old son, David. It was the same hoarse voice that had wakened me the night before and scared the shit out of Becky. He was so drunk, he barely recognized me, nor did he complain much when I dumped him on the floor of the barn, about a half hour later. It took me that long to chase him down on the four-wheeler. At the time I wasn't too happy with him, but now, just as the sun was coming up, and as his father cuffed and pushed him into the back of the truck, I had to laugh at the how ridiculous he was.
Gord was furious. I could see the anger in his flat eyes as he strode towards me.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I'll see that he re-pays you for any damage that he's done, and that he never does it again."
"Gord, please. He's lucky I didn't shoot him. If it hadn't been for the moon, I might have." The truth was, that I had known who it was long before I saw his bare ass flashing in the emergency lights that come on when they sense movement in the yard. And the fact that he'd been croaking Becky's name over and over again, in his half-man's voice, skipping in and out of range as he tripped through the corn stalks.
The sound of retching could be heard from the back of Gord's truck and Gord shut his eyes and put his head down.
"If we could keep this between us, I'd really appreciate it." His embarrassment was palpable, both from the sound of his voice, hushed and urgent, and from the barely discernible spread of a flush across his cheeks and neck.
"Of course, Gord. This is a family concern." I said, carefully. You don't antagonize a man like Gord. His pride carried him straight as a post and when it came to his son, his demeanor was often on the verge of cracking, his barely held fury sparkling just below his rough features. He was a very proud man.
As he spun the truck around and pointed it up the driveway, I saw a desperate hand reach up and clutch the side and I could barely hold my laughter in check. That boy was about to have a very bad day.
I heard the door open and shut behind me and Becky said, "Is he gone?"
"Yeah. He's gone." I turned to my youngest and levelled my best stare at her.
"What?" she said, too innocent, too quickly.
"I'll tell you what. You're playing with fire, young lady. Don't think, for a minute, that I don't know what's at the root of all this." I pointed to the chair behind her and she sat down sullenly, refusing to look at me.
"I didn't do anything. It was David. He's just a stupid kid." she said and I marvelled at how easily she lied to me. I wondered for a brief moment if my own mother could read me as clearly and I decided that I owed her an apology, the next time we spoke.

I don't know what I'm doing wrong. The boys, before they grew up and started families of their own, were never this much trouble. I could read their expression's so clearly; they were transparent to me and as if they realized this, they never tried to sugar-coat the truth or lie their way out of trouble. I try to fill her with the same set of principles and morals that the boys accepted without question but she resists every attempt I make to instill in her a sense of self-awareness and pride. I sometimes wish her father was here. He might have been able to get past her defenses, but without him I'm on my own. I'm losing control of this one and I don't know what to do about that.

I sat for a long time, watching the horizon, watching the light change over the field, before I got up and went in to start breakfast. We sat, saying nothing, until it was time for her to get ready for school. And when the door slammed shut and she was gone I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that for a few hours I could pretend that my life was a simple one and that as I grew older and wiser, things made more sense to me. If only it were that easy.

The Slow Walk Home

She swung through the market, happy and light. She wore a peasant skirt and flip-flops and an enormous bag was slung over her shoulder. She stopped at each and every stall to pick up a peach or inspect some radishes, buying what she thought was fresh and cheap. There were tables set up at either end of the street and in them mounds of handmade trinkets that the vendors swore were made in Guatemala by poor women trying to supplement their income. She knew they had been made, here, in some domestic workroom, in the basement, when the kids were asleep and hours before anyone else came home. She picked out a pair of earrings for herself and a second pair for her sister, who loved jewelry, especially if it was made in the poor countries, exotic and hot. She stopped at the coffee stand and drank a latte, standing beside Mr. Espresso (very urbane) and Ms. Cappuccino (tourist stamped all over her) and then marched on to the newsstand to get a copy of The Reflection. It contained an ongoing series of meditative exercises to combat bad skin and intestinal problems. Then she sat, to reflect on the disassociated and the weak-willed, on a bench that overlooked the small park sometimes confused for nature. When the tower clock struck five she stood and put her bag over her shoulder and walked down Murray Street, crossing Dalhousie, until the foot traffic thinned and the houses were residential, once more. She reached into the giant bag hanging from her shoulder and took out her keys and opened the door.

I know where she goes. I know where she lives. I understand her worries and her fears. The cyclical nature of her humours is evident in the way that her eyebrows move and the sharply defined creases around her mouth twitch in anticipation. I worry about her and I'm afraid something bad will happen to her when she least expects it. She has so many problems at home, things you and I might never have to contend with. I suppose that you might say she's no different from anyone else in this city, slowly collapsing under the weight of her mortality, but I say she should be spared that. Isn't that what redemption is for? I've heard her prayers to God, intercepted and deciphered. She calls for help and she calls for courage and she calls for an end to the perversion she sees around her. Just like I do. She's just like me. I know I can help her. I know so much more