there was a woman’s hanky stuck way up in the tree limb—the old-fashioned kind with handmade lace, not like the ones they make today.” My little brother looks up; his eyes are saucer-round. “It must have been hers,” he exclaims, “the ghost of the dead lady.” Dad shrugs. “Nawh,” he says, “it probably just blew out of his pocket. Old Josh probably had it with him the whole time.” The thunder crashes; we know it has hit nearby trees and it may start a forest fire. We are startled by the clock chiming nine. “Bedtime,” my mom announces brightly. “It’s a good night to remember your prayers before bed!” Dad can’t resist one more story. “Good thing we turned the power off,” he says. “I knew a family not too far from here that got so scared by a lightning storm that they all joined hands and got downon their knees to pray. One little barefoot boy stuck his toe right into a loose 220 outlet. He electrocuted the whole family at once.”
I lie awake listening to the wind in the trees, wondering if the big elm will come crashing down through the ceiling. Dad insists that we go to sleep in our own beds like normal. It’s about the importance of routine, of discipline; it’s about having faith in the Lord and not being a coward in the face of adversity and the importance of learning to be alone in the darkness and never trusting your ghosts. My sister sleeps soundly in her bed on the other side of the room. My mom is sitting up with my little brother, who is too afraid to go to sleep. He has a room of his own. I can hear her singing to him across the hall. I try to imagine walking out in the rain like Old Josh, except that I won’t believe in the ghosts. I will have my own magic and draw down the thunder. But every time my eyelids close, I see Old Josh swinging by his neck from the tree, staring with empty eye sockets, drawn in by the underworld voices.
We’re ticking down the minutes until the nightclubs close. There is a feeling of ozone descending like just before a lightning storm. The air smells like rain despite the pervasive sub-odour of french fry grease. Everything is extra quiet, only a few semi-sober customers drifting around before last call; then the hungry drunks come crashing in. The late-night crowd looks like they’ve never met a mirror they can trust—a mob of unkempt vampires, their skin looking paleand minimally undead under the fluorescent lights. This is a Toronto institution; the city’s only all-night restaurant. A cockroach emerges from behind the red vinyl banquettes, having feasted on nearly three decades of crumbs from the much-touted “homemade” apple pies. “Just like Mom makes.”
“How was school today?” Mom asks, as she spoons soup into our tin mugs. I shrug in response. The heat instantly transfers to the tin handle and I pull my sleeve down around my hand so as not to get burned. “Don’t stretch your sweater out of shape, honey. Sit up straight and ladylike.” She smiles at me like I’m three years old. “Just wait for the soup to cool.” I am fifteen. Nothing about me will cool soon. Dad is annoyed. He came in at five and the table wasn’t set. My math assignment had encroached on the place settings: papers on the chairs, a textbook flapped open where the serving dishes should be. “There’s no point in learning algebra if you can’t even tell time,” he quips. My grandfather shakes his head. “Blue Stocking,” he says affectionately and rubs my head. That’s his name for me. “You’re going to be too smart for your own good,” he jokes, “too big for your britches.” It’s not really a joke. My mom laughs as she chivvies my little brother and sister into their seats after they wash their hands. “Let’s say grace,” she says. It’s a children’s rhyme that she made us memorize. My little brother and sister kick each other under the table and giggle:
Thank you for the world so sweet
/
Thank you for the food we eat
. I’m
I lie awake listening to the wind in the trees, wondering if the big elm will come crashing down through the ceiling. Dad insists that we go to sleep in our own beds like normal. It’s about the importance of routine, of discipline; it’s about having faith in the Lord and not being a coward in the face of adversity and the importance of learning to be alone in the darkness and never trusting your ghosts. My sister sleeps soundly in her bed on the other side of the room. My mom is sitting up with my little brother, who is too afraid to go to sleep. He has a room of his own. I can hear her singing to him across the hall. I try to imagine walking out in the rain like Old Josh, except that I won’t believe in the ghosts. I will have my own magic and draw down the thunder. But every time my eyelids close, I see Old Josh swinging by his neck from the tree, staring with empty eye sockets, drawn in by the underworld voices.
We’re ticking down the minutes until the nightclubs close. There is a feeling of ozone descending like just before a lightning storm. The air smells like rain despite the pervasive sub-odour of french fry grease. Everything is extra quiet, only a few semi-sober customers drifting around before last call; then the hungry drunks come crashing in. The late-night crowd looks like they’ve never met a mirror they can trust—a mob of unkempt vampires, their skin looking paleand minimally undead under the fluorescent lights. This is a Toronto institution; the city’s only all-night restaurant. A cockroach emerges from behind the red vinyl banquettes, having feasted on nearly three decades of crumbs from the much-touted “homemade” apple pies. “Just like Mom makes.”
“How was school today?” Mom asks, as she spoons soup into our tin mugs. I shrug in response. The heat instantly transfers to the tin handle and I pull my sleeve down around my hand so as not to get burned. “Don’t stretch your sweater out of shape, honey. Sit up straight and ladylike.” She smiles at me like I’m three years old. “Just wait for the soup to cool.” I am fifteen. Nothing about me will cool soon. Dad is annoyed. He came in at five and the table wasn’t set. My math assignment had encroached on the place settings: papers on the chairs, a textbook flapped open where the serving dishes should be. “There’s no point in learning algebra if you can’t even tell time,” he quips. My grandfather shakes his head. “Blue Stocking,” he says affectionately and rubs my head. That’s his name for me. “You’re going to be too smart for your own good,” he jokes, “too big for your britches.” It’s not really a joke. My mom laughs as she chivvies my little brother and sister into their seats after they wash their hands. “Let’s say grace,” she says. It’s a children’s rhyme that she made us memorize. My little brother and sister kick each other under the table and giggle:
Thank you for the world so sweet
/
Thank you for the food we eat
. I’m
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