Sounding Line by Anne DeGrace

Author:Anne DeGrace
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, book
Publisher: Cormorant Books
Published: 2011-04-11T00:00:00+00:00

Four mugs of whisky stood on the cluttered kitchen table, beside them the dead soldier that was close to full at the start of things. Wilf remarked that Wanda could drink like a man, and Scratch had looked at her approvingly and nodded. Wanda had borrowed one of Scratch’s work shirts, rolled up the sleeves, and was covering more wallspace with yellow paint than any of them. “Didn’t know it was a contest,” Pocket protested when Wanda bumped him with her shoulder, sending him into Scratch, who pushed back. They painted right over the holes and gouges, Wilf rationalizing that “the cupboards’ll cover most of it up anyways.”

“It’s a happy colour,” Scratch commented when the wall was finished. “I think Merle’s gonna like it.”

“Yellow means renewal. It means hope,” Wanda said. “For the Indians it symbolizes the east, where the sun rises. A new day.”

“Well, it’s pretty, anyway,” Pocket offered.

There was yellow paint under Pocket’s fingernails and in his hair. “You always been a messy one, ain’tcha.” Scratch laughed. “I’d say ya got more’n the wall.”

Pocket, who was feeling the whisky, took his brush and ran it down the front of his uncle’s paint-spattered shirt, a yellow skunk-stripe. “Hey!” he yelled, then turned as Wilf painted the other side, teeth glinting white through a face streaked with paint.

“Don’t lie down, Scratch,” he said. “They’ll think yer the centre line on the highway.”

“An’ yer the passin lane,” Scratch countered, but Wilf ducked the brush, laughing.

All at once Pocket leaned against the doorframe. The hand that held the brush fell to his side.

“Ain’t this enough?” he said. He looked towards the living room.

“What, Son?”

“I just think—” Pocket’s words faltered.

“Boy looks tuckered out,” Scratch said. He put the brush down. “I ’magin we all are.”

Wilf sat down. The hilarity of a moment before had dissipated as though it had never existed. He looked at Wanda, who had gone to check on Merle and now stood at the kitchen door. “How is she?” His voice sounded small.

“Sleeping. Peaceful, which is a miracle considering the racket we’ve been making.”

Scratch turned to Wilf. “You haven’t really slept in days, have ya?”

Wilf lowered his eyes. “I can’t. I’m afraid she’ll wake up an’ need me, an’ I’ll just sleep on through.”

Pocket couldn’t bear to see this side of his father, the beaten, sad side. He preferred the dad that built wonky cupboards and goofed around with a paintbrush.

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” Scratch said. “No arguin. You stay upstairs, get a good night’s sleep.”

Later, Scratch stood with a blanket and pillow in hand, ready to bed down on the couch. He watched as Wilf kissed Merle’s forehead.

“You’ll call if she needs—”

Wanda, on the stairs, cut in. “Scratch will call me, won’t you, Scratch. I’ll help if the need arises.”

“Dunno if I’ll be able to sleep upstairs.” Wilf, so animated earlier in the kitchen, looked diminished to Pocket from where he had paused at the foot of the stairs. “I mean, s’good a you to offer, Scratch, but I just as soon stay down here.

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