The Float Home
The Antigonish Review Winter 2019, Volume No.196 Short Fiction
"She’s not like other women who drown their sorrow in a box of wine. No. Sage goes straight for the protein and lots of it."
When Guy calls to say he’s coming over because he’s got something he needs to say, Sage is convinced she’s about to get dumped. He sounds nervous, and a bit too formal, but at least this time she can give herself credit for falling for a guy with a conscience. Most just fuck off.
As soon as she gets off the phone, she tosses what’s left of her morning coffee in the sink and watches the black liquid swirl around the drain. That first jolt of caffeine usually perks her right up, but now she feels weak and considers going back to bed. Instead, she heads out to the yard to kill a chicken. Heartache makes her hungry, it always has and maybe that’s why her hips are a tight fit for an Adirondack chair. She’s not like other women who drown their sorrow in a box of wine. No. Sage goes straight for the protein and lots of it.
As she watches a beheaded chicken take its last few steps, she thinks she ought to kill another. She really likes Guy. In fact, just two nights ago she almost said, ‘I love you’. These are words she saves for her son and a few very close friends. Her romantic heart has been punted too many times. The last man she fell for got on a ferry one afternoon while she was preparing a special birthday dinner for him. The nurse from the clinic said she chatted with him on the way to the mainland. Sage never told the nurse about the asparagus risotto and lamb chops she was preparing at the exact moment when he said that island life made him feel claustrophobic and itchy all over.
It’s early morning, not even eight yet and Sage is still in her yellow flannel pajama bottoms and a faded black Iron Maiden t-shirt. No use getting all gussied up for the big rejection. She hopes Guy takes one look at her messy state and thinks he doesn’t mean that much to her after all, no big deal, he isn’t so important that she’d shower. Sage needs to hide her soft belly.
She gets a pot of hot water ready and carries it outside to her gardening/gutting table where everything hoses down neatly. It’s about to be a cooler August day and for that she’s grateful. Nothing grounds her better than a day outside weeding her garden and tending to her herbal remedies. Mr. Lavoie hasn’t shit for a week and she’s promised him a concoction that’s sure to flush him out, and Elsie needs an oregano oil tincture for her mess of cold sores.
As she plucks feathers, she tries not to cry. It was silly to fall for a man like Guy. He’s as odd and insecure as she is. “I’m only looking for a smile,” he said the first time they met outside the co-op where he’d been hired to replace the roof. His standards were lower than hers that day, because she wanted a trickle of kindness and a damned good laugh. Still, they’d done pretty good for the last few months. He loves to cook, and she loves to eat. They both think stars are better than television and he likes her boy, Levi. Calls him ‘special’, but in a good way.
When she hears his old truck turn up her drive and make the slow turn around the large Garry Oak her great-grandfather planted before there were cars on this island she straightens up. Take it on the chin, she tells herself. She’s never asked why he’s moved from place to place so many times; Regina, Waterloo, New Denver, Halifax, even Hay River, and he’s never admitted to what prompts him to move on. No matter, it’s best if he leaves sooner rather than later. The island is overrun with drifters looking for something they’ll never find.
He parks beside the shed, walks towards her, and says with a wide smile, “How you doin?”
“Havin’ a time here.” She holds up the chicken that’s half plucked.
Guy is wearing his favourite cowboy boots and a red checkered shirt with a collar. His jeans are clean, and he’s trimmed his white beard and mustache shorter than she’s ever seen. Now she’s certain he’s leaving because no one here cares much about appearances. “So, what do you need to tell me?” She pucks more feathers.
“I’ve done something, and I want to tell you before you hear it from someone else.”
Fuck, shit, cocksucker! The old boy has stuck his flagpole somewhere else. Just the kind of gossip the island needs before a long dark winter! Sage plops the chicken in the pot of hot water and wipes her palms on the front of her t-shirt. She feels weak in the knees and walks towards her back steps to sit in the shade. He follows but doesn’t sit down beside her. He stands in front of her, too close sort of, but she likes the proximity, nonetheless. “
I don’t want to upset you, Sage, and I’m not sure how you’ll react to what I’ve done.”
Sage feels nauseous, a headache is coming on and she can’t hold back her emotions any longer. She yells, “Just tell me what the fuck you’re here to say!” then rests her elbows on her knees, stares down at the line of ants carrying food under her house.
“I bought a float home at the marina, and I got a steady job here working for highways. Good pay. I should have talked to you about all this … I like it here, and I’m sticking around.”
Sage rubs her face with her damp fresh-chicken-kill hands, feels strands of hair stick to her cheeks. This is not the rejection she expected, and her tummy feels all fluttery, but it’s far less than what she wants. He didn’t say he’s sticking around specifically for her.
Mixed with her anxiety is a good thread of fear that she might lose him after all. That crowd at the marina is not her crowd. In fact, quite the opposite and either Guy is unaware of all this or, he doesn’t care.
She scratches underneath her boobs that rest on her knees and tries to think of the right thing to say that doesn’t reveal her emotions. Her heart is pounding as if she’s ran uphill. “You bought the float house with the red door that’s next to the gift shop that woman named, Linda opened and calls an art studio?”
“Yup, that’s the one.”
She stands up, “You’ll have all those fancy tourists walking up and down the dock all summer long.”
“Only when her shop is opened.” “
She was sleeping with Mike when he was still living with my friend, Margaret.” Sage’s vocal cords strain and she’s surprised at the tension travelling up her neck to the base of her skull.
Guy looks at his boots, his brow is all creased as he bites his bottom lip. “Mike shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, he shouldn’t have done that. As soon as that woman arrived, she had her eyes on Mike and didn’t let up until his marriage was destroyed. She doesn’t even care about his daughter. The girl is only fifteen!” Sage licks her dry lips, breathes deeply. Her thoughts whirl like a balloon losing air.
Guy takes a few steps back and looks over his shoulder at his truck as if he might make a run for it.
Her peripheral vision shows her just how flushed her cheeks are and her own spittle has landed on her chin. She wipes it off and shuts up because Guy doesn’t need to see how Linda gets under her skin. Margaret is barely hanging on and her sorrow seeps into Sage like a damp February night. Sage can’t forget the night in the hospital after the seal bit Mike and he was in surgery. Linda waltzed in as if there was no question who Mike belonged to. The way she dismissed both Margaret and Sage as if they were of no concern at all. What kind of woman doesn’t fear her man’s ex and the ex’s best friend?
Guy shifts his weight from on leg to the other, back and forth still eyeing his truck. It strikes her that maybe it’s the weight of other peoples’ conflicts that keeps him moving on—she’s never seen him look so rattled before. And he’s shaved and dressed for this occasion and that must mean something. She lowers her voice, smiles and tries to restore some measure of balance to their exchange. “I knew someone who used to rent that float home back in the day before Jay McHardy owned the marina. It was half the size. The only boats that tied up were tugs and fishing fleets. No fancy yachts back then.”
“Is that so? It must have been nice as a working dock instead of a rich boaters’ hang-out.” His sheepish smile returns.
“It was a fun place to hang out. And I remember that float home never had a macerator or a holding tank. You’d flush the toilet and wait for a high tide to take your direct deposit out to sea.” Sage laughs, because it really was funny after smoking a big fat joint.
“Linda talked to me about that. She said she didn’t want any raw sewage floating past. She said her customers wouldn’t appreciate it.
“What does she expect you to do, run to the marina facilities every time nature calls?” Guy is a decent and modest fellow, and Sage believes he will use the marina’s facilities—time permitting.
“I guess so.”
Sage feels another Linda-rant coming on but stops herself. In a sweeter voice she says, “Well, until the by-laws change you have every right to use what plumbing system you’ve got.”
Guy nods in agreement, looks relieved. “I hope you can ignore her if you see her at the marina.”
“Absolutely,” Sage says. “None of her behavior has anything to do with us.” Her mind is already racing with ways to make Linda’s existence unbearable, crack her wide opened and see what’s inside. Grudges on this island are everything and there’s never enough space for them to fade away, but she figures Guy will figure that out on his own.
After a moment of awkward silence and smiles, Guy extends his hand and opens it slowly to reveal a shiny new gold door key. Sage runs her pointer finger along it. The edges have prickly shards that haven’t worn off yet. “I had this made for you … if you want it,” he says.
She takes it from his hand and squeezes it tightly to her own. Tears swell in her eyes because this is the closest thing to a proposal she’s ever had and look at her standing in front of him dressed in rags with chicken feathers stuck to them. Vindictive thoughts of Linda have almost left her but imagine if she didn’t curb her anger, and Guy had made a run for his truck. Then, Sage and Margaret would have to spend the day with a box of wine, a roasted chicken and enough hatred to feed a tornado.
“Do you want to see the new place?” Guy asks.
“I’d like to get cleaned up first.”
“Okay, how about you meet me there for lunch around noon. I’ll get a chunk of fresh salmon from one of the boats.” He points his chin towards her large vegetable garden. “Why don’t you make us one of your salads, with kale and onions and some of those sweet cherry tomatoes. And that spicy dressing, I really enjoyed that spicy dressing.”
“I can do that.” She’s still smiling as she leans in to kiss his cheek.
After he drives off, and her property is surrounded by a blanket of silence she finishes cleaning the chicken, brings it inside and soaks it in brine. Food for another day. She’s thrilled that he wants to stay on this island and that he’s given her a key to his new place, but location is everything and she wishes he’d spoken to her first. She could have warned him about staying clear of certain locales.
Deep in thought she makes a salad she knows he’ll enjoy, and whisks together a dressing of avocado oil, aged balsamic vinegar, crushed garlic and a dash of ground up chilly peppers she grew herself.
Mr. Lavoie calls to ask about his remedy. “I’m desperate,” he says.
“I’ll drop it off within the hour, I haven’t forgotten about you,” she says, but she has, because her mind is overrun with thoughts of Guy living so close to Linda and so many other people she purposely avoids.
She meticulously drains off the Senna leaves and pours the liquid laxative into a small glass bottle with a cork topper. There’re about two doses left over.
As she works, she remembers that this is the last week of summer and Linda is having an end-of-season art sale—the posters are plastered all over town. The sale will draw a crowd of fancy boat people who don’t care that none of the art in her shop is created by people on this island. A crying shame because there’s so much local talent to source from!
Sage showers, slips into a loose-fitting cotton dress with vivid green and gold flowers. She decorates her ears with large gold hoops and her wrists with as many bangles as will fit. She shakes her wet hair and lets her wild red curls do what they will.
She loves to make an entrance. Back in her kitchen she ponders the leftover laxative that’s almost the same colour as the salad dressing. She glances at the calendar that hangs near the back door, yes, slack waters at mid-day. It will take hours for the tide to role in and flush out the cove. She wishes she still grew pot because this afternoon could be hysterical, and she’s almost positive Guy will appreciate her humour.