If You're Happy by Fiona Robertson

Author:Fiona Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Queensland Press
Published: 2021-12-05T21:12:01+00:00

Karl paused in the doorway, tucking the old blue scarf into his coat, his wife’s fine knitting soft beneath his fingers.

Outside it was snowing, the third day now. Flakes fell thick and fast, clumping wetly together before they hit the ground, swirling down under the porch light. He braced himself as he stepped outside.

‘Drive safely now, Dad.’ Bridget waited on the doorstep. ‘The roads are going to be messy.’ She reached to hug him again, and he allowed the embrace, patting her arm with his glove. Her face against his was warm and damp.

As she drew back, she touched his sleeve. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’

Karl imagined being tucked up in the guest room, the heating so high that he needed just one blanket, waking in the morning to oatmeal with raisins, expensive coffee and the banter of his teenage grandchildren. There would be laughter and fresh bananas and those extravagant thick towels Bridget liked to buy.

If he drove to his small house the next suburb over, he’d wake in the tidy bedroom with Annie smiling from the frame beside him and the terrible, snowy silence.

But Walter, Bridget’s husband, hovered in the hall with his pear-shaped belly and dopey smile. Karl stepped away. He was too tired for Walter’s kindness.

‘I’m fine. You go inside, get warm. Goodnight.’

‘Night, Dad. Call us when you get home.’

The yellow wedge of light followed Karl down the shovelled path, already dusted white. Taking short, careful steps, he turned along the sidewalk. The street was lined with cars – a party somewhere, he supposed – but at least he’d found a spot outside the house next door.

The Volvo’s windshield was filmed over and he swiped the fresh snow with his forearm then eased himself in, tucking his legs behind the wheel. At last Bridget and Walter disappeared inside.

He turned the ignition. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing.

‘Mein Gott!’

He hauled himself out and back to the house, up the four steps to the front stoop. The doorbell wasn’t working – that dummkopf Walter never remembered to change the batteries – so he knocked loudly, just like before, cold wood grazing his knuckles. He crossed his arms as he waited. He’d have to call roadside assistance; no use asking Walter for help.

Though he’d dressed in layers, the Vancouver winter chill seeped through coat and sweater, through shirt and undershirt. He shuddered, and stamped his feet. After a minute, he tried the door and was relieved to find it unlocked.

He hurried into the balmy foyer, where the smell of beef stroganoff lingered. Walter was playing music in the kitchen – a beige, bland melody, something a dentist might play in their waiting room. Karl had tried giving him better CDs – Tchaikovsky, Wagner, Shostakovich – but though Walter thanked him, he kept playing the same old scheisse.

‘Hal-lo!’ Karl slipped his gloves into his pockets, and bent to remove his shoes.

A pot clanged into the sink and water blasted from a tap.

‘God I’m exhausted.’

It was Bridget, speaking loudly over the clatter.

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