The Cube People (12 page)

“Do you still plan on naming the child Samantha?”

“Yes, but I think we're going to call her Sammy.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I say.

“Yes Colin, I'll be up in a couple of days as we discussed to help out.”

“Sounds good.”

“Give my best to Sarah.”

“Will do.”

“Goodbye Colin.”

“Bye, Barbara.” I hang up. What a bitch.

I call over to my father's house. His wife answers. She tells me he left for the hospital a while ago. Just as I hang up I hear, “Hey Tiger.” My father hasn't called me Tiger since I was eight. I spin around. “Dad?”

There's my father, flowers in one hand and a box in the other. “Where's that granddaughter of mine?” he asks, booze coming off his breath.

“How did you know to come to the hospital?”

“She was scheduled to have the induction yesterday, wasn't she?”

“You remembered that?”

“Had it circled on the calendar. When there was no answer at your place last night, I figure you must be in here. I came down this morning at six.”

“You've been here since six?”

“Brought a little something to nip on,” he says, pulling a silver flask from his pocket. “Want a nip?”

“No thanks.”

“Here you go,” he says passing me a box of cigars. “I put little pink bands around each of them. They're Dominican. I took a couple for myself. They're damn good. Pass 'em out to all your friends.”

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

“No problem, now let's see this Sammy girl.” Despite the fact that my father has been drinking since six in the morning, he's good company and leaves shortly after seeing Sarah and the baby. He says he'll swing by tomorrow. As he leaves, I see my mother coming down the hallway with balloons and flowers and another stuffed creature – a yellow duck.

“Hi Mom.”

“Oh baby, give me a big hug!” she yells, wrapping herself around me.

“Where are they?” she asks.

“Follow me Mom, this way.”

Sarah's breasts are enormous. They were big before, but now they are triple-X porn-star boobs. She's having a h
eck of a time trying to get Sammy to latch. Imagine trying to suck on a spring roll that was attached to the Goodyear Blimp – you get the idea? Sarah's solution has been to dribble colostrum, the pre-milk, from her breasts into Sammy's mouth, as if she were a baby bird.

The first night at home goes fairly smoothly, I think. Sammy's sleeping in our room in an antique bassinet beside our bed. Sarah slept in this thing when she was a baby, as did Barbara. Sammy sleeps for five hours straight. I don't sleep well because Sarah's perched like a gargoyle at the side of the bassinet, making sure that Sammy is breathing. I try to get her to relax, but she can't. At 2 a.m. Sammy wakes up screaming. She has peed through her diaper. I get a cloth and change everything. I record the urination on a yellow card that the hospital gave us, which we have to give to our doctor in few days. Sarah then tries to feed her but can't get the latch, so Sarah does the dribble. Sammy drinks down an ounce. “Want to try and burp her?” asks Sarah.

“Sure.”

She passes me Sammy and I balance her on my knee. I hold her bobble-head with thumb and index fingers, squishing her chubby cheeks, palm supporting her chest as I gently tap her on the back with the palm of my other hand. Sammy lets out a significant belch. Sarah and I smile.

“Isn't she the cutest?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah, pretty cute.”

“I love you, Colin.”

“Love you too, baby.”

Sarah begins to cry.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Just tired and happy.”

“Me too,” I say, rocking Sammy in my arms. “Me too.”

Barbara arrives from Toronto the next day. I greet her at the door with Sammy in my arm. She peers at Sammy as if she were selecting which Rolex was the most expensive in the showcase.

“What do you think of your granddaughter?”

“Quite lovely.”

“Would you like to hold her?”

She looks at me like I'm offering her a haul off a crack pipe. “Uh, sure,” she says, taking Sammy into her arms. I swear I'll never understand how this lady managed to raise children.

Sarah comes out of the washroom and sees her mother holding Sammy. “Oh Mom isn't she adorable?” asks Sarah, flying to her mother's side.

“Colin, would you mind getting my bags? They're in the car,” Barbara says, extending her keys. Barbara doesn't ask, she orders.

“Sure thing,” I say. As soon as I get outside a weight lifts; somebody has taken their foot off my chest. The mother-in-law tension has already begun. Barbara thinks Sarah could have done a whole lot better than marry a government bureaucrat wannabe writer. Barbara wishes I had aspired to be something to help her be socially triumphant during her gin rummy games with her affluent friends: my son-in-law is a brain surgeon or my son-in-law is a corporate lawyer.

Sarah told me that her father had met another woman, but before he could leave Barbara he died of cancer. Subsequently, there was no divorce scandal and the pristine veneer of country clubs and church socials remained firmly intact. Barbara's been playing the role of grieving widow for over ten years now. What surprises me is that Sarah puts up with the charade of mourning. I wonder if I can sneak off to the bar for a drink?

I pop the trunk of Barbara's Audi, grab all four bags, which are as heavy as Sarah's childhood guilt. I drag the lot back inside and into the living room. In Sammy's room I've set up a $250 cot – Barbara wouldn't sleep on anything less according to Sarah.

“Oh, Colin, you brought everything in. You can put those two back,” orders Barbara, pointing at the two bigger bags.

“Oh, what are these for?” I ask.

“Those are my clothes, those two are gifts for Sarah and the baby.”

“Clothes? Don't you want me to put them in your room?”

“Room?”

“Yeah, we got a cot set up in Sammy's room for you.”

“Oh no, I'm staying at the Westin, dear.”

I put the bags back in the car. I wonder if I can return the cot? I'm fuming. Back inside, Barbara says, “Colin, would you be a dear and get me a few things at the store?”

“What do you need, Barb?”

Sarah can tell I'm pissed and is giving me the look of death.

“I need a bottle of Absolut vodka, cranberry juice, ice – unless you have lots in the freezer. And can you also get soda crackers and some good cheese.”

She pulls a hundred from her purse and remains seated, holding out the bill. I walk over and snatch the bill. Barbara reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of menthol cigarettes.

“Barb, you can't smoke around the baby,” I tell her.

She looks to Sarah.

“Mom, really, you'll have to go outside.”

Barbara sighs and says, “Fine,” and puts the package back in her handbag. Barbara reminds me of Mrs. Robinson from
The Graduate
.

When I get back, I fix drinks for Barbara and me, and then move on to dinner. I'm making Sarah her favourite, spaghetti and meatballs. I mix the ground beef with an egg, breadcrumbs, freshly grated parmesan cheese and parsley. I hand-roll forty tiny meatballs, which I'm frying when the doorbell rings. Sarah is trying to breastfeed and Barbara is outside smoking. I run to the door. It's the public health nurse. She asks how things are going. I tell her fine, but explain that Sammy's having trouble latching. She jumps in and immediately helps Sarah get repositioned. The doorbell rings again. Barbara's locked herself out. The phone rings. I run and answer it. It's my mother, asking how it's going. I tell her it's busy and whisper that Barbara is driving me nuts. She tells me that Great Uncle Lester died the other day at ninety-two. I haven't seen Uncle Lester since I was six. I interrupt her and ask if I can call her back. I put the phone down and it immediately rings again. “Hello?”

“Is this Colin MacDonald?”

“Yes?”

“I'm calling to…”

“No thanks,” I say slamming down the phone.

The smoke alarm goes off. The fucking meatballs! I run to the kitchen, which is full of smoke. Sammy is screaming. I pull the pan off the stove and throw it into the sink, open the window, grab a chair and stand on it to pull out the battery from the alarm. Barbara waltzes into the kitchen waving the air, coughing ever so slightly and looks at the charred marbles in the sink. “Well that's not very good now, is it? Maybe we should do take-out. Do you know any Thai places that deliver?” asks Barbara.

After dinner I clean up all the tinfoil trays and wash the dishes. Sarah comes up to me and says, “Why don't you take the laptop and go out for a bit, do some writing? You haven't written in several days.”

“Are you sure? You going to be okay looking after Sammy?”

“I'll be fine, my mother is here.”

“Yeah, big help.”

“Be nice.”

“Call me if there is any problem?”

“Sure. Where are you going, Starbucks?”

“Yep,” I say, unplugging the laptop.

“Heading out?” Barbara asks, looking up from the couch over the top of
Vogue
.

“Yeah, going to do a little writing down at the coffee shop.”

“Oh, so you're still trying to do that, are you? What's it called,
The Ice Cube
?”

“
The Cube People
. I finished it two Christmases ago.”

“Oh, well good for you, Colin. Any luck getting it published?”

“Not yet, but one publisher asked to see the whole thing.”

“Well, that's encouraging isn't it? Who's Maggie Woodland published with? She's written science fiction.”

“Cold Bird Press.”

“Have you tried them?”

“No.”

Barbara doesn't say anything, just leaves it hanging. Sarah walks up behind me carrying Sammy.

“I'll be back in a bit,” I say. I kiss Sarah and a sleeping Sammy on the top of her little head. I go out the door.

When Ryan opened the door, he saw Gillian's face, but it was much older, wrinkled. The hair was grey and she was wearing bifocals. “Hello Heidi,” said Ryan, concealing the ball-peen hammer in his hand behind his
right leg.

“I've been so worried, where's Gillian?”

“She's right upstairs. I don't know what happened. She came home early from work complaining she wasn't feeling well and then she wanted me to call you. She wanted to see you. She seems to have a low-grade fever. Maybe you can convince her to go to the hospital.”

“Yes of course,” said Ryan's mother-in-law as she stepped into the hallway and headed up the stairs.

When she'd reached the third step, Ryan swung the hammer, striking her in the back of head. Her arms shot out to the sides as if she'd been crucified. Ryan dodged her body as it fell backwards. When she landed, she twitched and convulsed. She shook all over, then became still. Her mouth and eyes were wide open. Ryan pulled her by the feet toward the basement. Her head bounced on the steps on the way down.

* * *

When Ryan came back upstairs, Gillian was standing in the hallway.

“Is that my mother's car out front?”

“Yes,” said Ryan without any hesitation. “She stopped by to see us.”

“Really? Where is she?”

“She's in the basement.”

“The basement? What is she doing down there?”

“She brought us a surprise.”

“What is it?”

“I can't tell. Then it wouldn't be a surprise now would it?”

Gillian moved down the dark hall without noticing the blood trail she was stepping on.

“Mom?” she called down the basement stairs.

“Go down, you should see it.”

“Mom?” she called again. “Are you down there?”

“Go on.”

Gillian took a few steps down, then stopped. “What's that smell?”

“You have to see it Gillian, with your own eyes. It's really quite something.”

“Mom?” Gillian turned around to go back up the stairs but Ryan was right behind her. “I don't like this Ryan. Where's my mom?”

“Down there.”

“Why isn't she answering then?”

“Maybe she can't hear you. You should…” Over Gillian's shoulder he saw the tentacle slither up the stairs. Gillian's eyes widened in terror as the tentacle wrapped around her leg, pulling her backwards. Gillian screamed. “Oh God, Ryan! Help me!” Gillian shouted as she was pulled to the bottom and around the corner.

My cellphone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's me,” says Sarah. “My mother left for the hotel, so the coast is clear. I'm sorry she's such a pain.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Can you come home? Sammy did a poop. I think we should try to give her a bath. She smells.”

“Okay, I'll be home in ten. Want anything?”

“Espresso chocolate brownie if they have one. If they don't, don't worry, I don't want the low-fat vegan one. Otherwise get me something good. And a decaf with milk.”

“Done. You know, my character just killed off his wife.”

“You're a sick bastard. Does she get hacked up into little pieces?”

“I think you're the sick one… hacked up into little pieces?”

“Yeah baby, lots of blood. Hurry home will you?”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“I'm sorry Gillian,” said Ryan. He stood on the stairs, listening to the slurping and squelching sounds the hole emitted as it devoured his wife.

What have I done, thought Ryan. What have I done?

Somehow I managed to endure four days of Barbara. In the evenings Sarah let me escape to Starbucks so I could work on
Hungry Hole
. I kept revising the part where Ryan hit his mother-in-law with the hammer, each time making it more bloody and violent. By the end of the fourth day, Ryan was mashing her head into a pulpy mess before
sawing her up and feeding her to the hole, limb by bloody limb.

After the departure of Barbara, we came under siege by a barrage of visitors and non-stop phone calls from people wanting to wish us well, wondering when they could come and drop off a casserole, when they could come and see the baby: my mother, my father, Phil, Sarah's sister, my stepsister, my cousin and a number of Sarah's girlfriends. The apartment is swarming with flowers, cards, balloons and stuffed animals.

About a week later, I come home after getting groceries to find Sarah sitting on the couch holding Sammy. A helium foil balloon, slightly deflated, the word
Congratulations
written on it, floats mid-air, hovering just above and to the left of Sarah's head. Sarah's crying. My heart jumps. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” she sobs.

I rush over. “Something wrong with Sammy?”

“No, she is f-fine,” she cries.

I sit down beside her and rub her back.

“What is it baby? What happened? Why are you crying?”

“I don't know. I'm just sad. I'm okay, just sad.”

“Sad about what?”

“I think it's just hormones, Colin. I'm still bleeding. I'm still being held together with string. I'm covered in breast milk. I haven't had a bath in two days. I haven't been outside in forever, and I'm so tired.”

“Why don't I put away the groceries and then when I'm done, why don't I sit with Sammy while you take a bath? Then, if you're feeling up to it, we could go for a walk. I think the fresh air could do you some good. What do you think?”

She nods her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Okay then, let me put those away and you get cleaned up.”

I can't say that I'm too shocked by Sarah's emotional outburst. Just the other night we were watching
March of the Penguins
on TV. Sarah fell asleep. When they got to the part where one of the penguins loses his egg and the baby dies, I cried my eyes out. I can't imagine what's going on with Sarah and her superhighway of hormones surging uncontrollably around her body. While Sarah is in the bath, I place Sammy on the Baby Einstein activity gym. She is far too young for it, but it's supposed to be good for little Sammy's developing brain to look at black and white stripes. I log on to my email, which I haven't checked since I sent out the birth announcement. I have twenty new messages, most of which have the same subject line: “Re: Our New Taxpayer,” friends and family responding to the photos of Sammy I sent. One subject line grabs my eye:
The Cube People
. I click on it.

From: Marcus Jackson Editor Black Forest Editions

Date: 2007/04/25 AM 10:12:01 EDT

To: Colin MacDonald

Subject: The Cube People

Hello Colin:

After reading over your complete manuscript of
The Cube People
, I'm delighted to tell you that we would love to publish it if it is still available. It is one of the most unique and interesting books I've read in a long time. I thought the characters were well-developed and robust. The plot is extremely clever; however I did find some sections confusing and think they could use a reworking. Overall though, it's really a fabulous book. We would be looking at next spring as a release date. Please let me know if the manuscript is still available.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Best Regards, Marcus

“Holy shit,” I whisper to the air. My head is spinning. I reread it several times. I look down at Sammy who is staring up at the black and white bar. “I did it Sammy,” I tell her. I listen to the bathwater stop. Should I tell Sarah? Should I interrupt the bath? I'm about to burst. I'll wait. I tiptoe dance around Sammy on the mat pumping my arms into the air. Then I go back to the screen and read the email one more time. I just can't believe it. First Sammy, now this. I'm undeserving. I don't remember auditioning for this play, but here I am with the starring role.

Sarah sees me on the couch with a beer in my hand and a smile from ear to ear. Sammy's now in the vibrating chair. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I say back, smiling like a lotto winner.

“What?”

“Black Forest Editions said yes.”

“What? Really?”

I point to the laptop. “Read it.”

Her hair wrapped in a towel, Sarah shuffles in her bathrobe over to the screen and reads. She stands up straight and turns around, right hand on her mouth. Her left hand is flapping, swatting away an imaginary bug as she begins to cry.

“I'm so happy, I'm sorry I'm crying, but I'm really happy for you, baby.”

I go over and give her a hug.

“Are they a good press?”

“Well it's not a big press, but they have published a few Governor General's nominees.”

“Oh baby, I'm so happy for you.”

“You up for a walk?”

“I'm worried about popping a stitch.”

“We'll go slow. I'll push the stroller. Maybe walk to the 7-Eleven and get a Slurpee?”

She nods her head.

“Look at little Sammy, isn't she beautiful?” I ask.

“She's so lovely. I love her so much.”

“Man, can it get any better than this?”

I go back to work after being off for two and a half weeks. I have almost two hundred emails to wade through. There are several emails from management stating that they are toying with the idea of having a no-email day. I wish. I hack away at the electronic jungle of messages most of the morning. I'm happy to see that Jackie and Mr. Peaches are still gone. I'm secretly hoping that they'll be unable to come back. To my surprise, Dan shows up at quarter to eleven carrying a massive white panel. “Colin, give me a hand with this,” Dan huffs.

“Jesus, I thought you were gone for good? Bruce told me you had fibromyalgia and you weren't coming back.”

“Nah, turns out I have Seasonal Affective Disorder and I just need light.”

“But, Dan, it's May.”

“Well it's more like non-seasonal depression.”

“Non-seasonal depression, what the hell is that?”

“Well it's seasonal depression, except it's not in the winter or fall.”

“So you're suffering from just plain old depression then?”

“Well, sort of, I guess,” says Dan cheerily. “The doctor told me I could use some light after I told him how dark my cubicle was.” I suspect that this whole business is just a clever ruse for Dan to get what he really wants and has been asking for for years, namely a window seat.

We spend the next half hour attaching the metal stand and adjusting the height of the giant light panel. When Dan flicks it on, the whole quad is immediately awash in a powerful fluorescent light. It's football stadium light, the kind you would see on your way to heaven. I realize that I won't be able to work when Dan has his SunSquare Plus ablaze. It feels like a car is parked behind me with its high beams on. “Dan, I can't see my screen with the glare coming off of it, you're going to need to turn that thing off.”

“Just fifteen minutes twice a day,” pleads Dan. “I really need to get better.”

“Christ, fine. I'll be back in fifteen then,” I tell him.

I march off to get a coffee.