Burr

Burr 2023 Copyright © Brooke Lockyer, 20231 2 3 4 5 — 27 26 25 24 23ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, [email protected]. Nightwood EditionsP.O. Box 1779Gibsons, BC V0N 1V0Canadawww.nightwoodeditions.comCOVER DESIGN: Angela YenTYPESETTING: Carleton Wilson Nightwood Editions acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council.This book has been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled, ancient-forest-free paper, processed chlorine-free and printed with vegetable-based dyes.Printed and bound in Canada.LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATIONTitle: Burr / Brooke Lockyer.Names: Lockyer, Brooke, author.Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2022048841X | Canadiana (ebook) 20220488428 | ISBN 9780889714427 (softcover) | ISBN 9780889714434 (EPUB)Classification: LCC PS8623.O32 B87 2023 | DDC C813/.6—dc23 In memory of my father. PART ONEGot a date to see a ghost by the name of JonesMakes me feel happy to hear him rattle his bonesHe’s one man I always know just where to findHe’s one man I always know just where to find When you want true lovin’, go and get the cemetery kind —Sid Laney and Spencer Williams, “Cemetery Blues” (as sung by Bessie Smith) JaneI look for my father under my bed. I look inside laundry hampers, beneath the cushions of couches and chairs. I stick my fingers in the cold toes of his shoes. Sometimes I find something that smells of him. Other times a strand of his hair, shining silver when I hold it to the light. I trace the cracks in his shrunken soap. I inspect his tweezers, squeeze his nail clippers open and closed. Brush the dry bristles of his toothbrush with my finger. Drag his razor over my thumb until it bleeds.I enter my parents’ bedroom when Mom isn’t there. I sniff his side of the sheets. Check his white cotton pillowcase for eyelashes or scabs or dried pools of spit. Examine the shape of his pillow for the indent of his sleeping head. I pull parking slips from his jacket pockets. A travel comb, loose change. I dig deeper, the tips of my nails darkening with lint. I open his drawers and bury my face in his favourite flannel shirt. Press the socks he’d folded together in pairs. I thumb through the ties hanging from the rack, swaths of bees and trout waiting to be knotted around his neck. I want to find a letter with my name on it. An envelope with his voice trapped inside. A conversation I can unfold with my hands.I search all over the house though I know it’s no good. My father thought he would live long enough to see me get married, have a child or two. Why would he have hidden a goodbye for me when I am thirteen and he forty-two?I find other things I shouldn’t. A prescription for a drug I can’t MeredithMeredith stands on the porch, gazing at the black maple in her front yard. In another month, the leaves will rust. Flowers were unfurling when Henry dropped dead. It happened on their anniversary. They’d taken the afternoon off work.After the funeral, there was a heat spell that lasted for weeks. Sweat seeping through her hairline and the armpits of her shirts. Her daughter pulling away when reached for. (Or was it the reverse?) She kneels and ties the laces of her running shoes into bows. Ever since her husband died, she’s relied on long walks to cope. Meredith doesn’t realize how much she’s missed the library until she sees it. She ducks under the familiar awning when it starts to rain, wanting to be close to her place of work but not inside. Through the small side window, she watches Mrs. Beatty, her boss, type and wonders if she made a mistake by taking a leave of absence. She misses the cart she pushed steadily through most of her adult life, the squeak of wheels on carpet accompanying her through singledom, marriage and motherhood.She met her husband Henry in London, Ontario, when she was in her first year of university, struggling to cover tuition with shifts at Huron College library. He’d watched her over the top of Fifth Business five Wednesdays in a row as she strode past his chair. He barely turned a page when she was in sight. She discovered later it was Henry who had hid books for her to discover. She uncovered Dance of the Happy Shades nestled with Love Story in her cubbyhole when she pulled out her scarf (how he snuck into the employees’ room, she didn’t know).