Maple Creek
by Emily May Turton
Fat old men killing themselves wasn’t news anymore.
Everyone acted like it was, but it wasn’t. The TV still flickered, the windows shuttered and groaned, and the church ladies gossiped, but it wasn’t news.
The moonlight filtered through the ratty cotton curtains that morning, heavy and still. It draped over the depressed couch like a blanket. There was a lulling black-and-white buzz from the TV.
The hardwood floor creaked, littered with ashes, porn magazines, and month-old sour beer. It was littered with you. The apartment was silent as if it were holding its breath; it was waiting. For what? A second-coming? Please—the clock had long stopped ticking, and the landline never rang. You never called.
I was fine with that.
I never answered—I don’t like angry men. I didn't like the taste of anger either, but all these fat old men seemed to down it by the bottle until they bled beer in Saskatchewan's oil lines.
Your friends say you were murdered. I don’t care. I don’t talk to cops.
The TV was on, and the news anchors glared at me past my sunglasses. I didn’t like it here. Your living room was cold and cramped. It reminded me of a confessional booth. Your bedroom door was shut, unlocked. When I arrived, I turned the handle once, but couldn’t step inside. I didn’t want to see your bed.
I rubbed my arms. I could feel the air-conditioning sputtering against my neck like God was breathing down on me, in and out.
You were always working late, in and out. You never called, but they did.
They came quickly, in droves. They were missionaries to third-world countries. Their rosaries were nooses, and their thoughts and prayers fell from their lips like rotten fruit from a fig tree.
Everybody in Maple Creek said you were a good man. What were you? A martyr?
The sunlight stained the curtains, bleeding into the room like a drunkard in an alley. Light pried through the stale air, soiling the space with cold warmth.
There was a soft knock on the front door. Must be Sister Grace…again. I still hadn’t decided—I’d only been back three days, but hadn’t left your apartment since. I slept on the couch, and probably smelled like it, too.
She knocked again.
I got up and stepped over the mess, not looking down. The floorboards groaned, the wood soft with water rot. I feared if I stayed still too long, I would get swallowed whole. My ribcage shuddered at the thought as I unhooked the lock chain.
“Oh, baby.” Sister Grace lingered in the door frame, holding a thermos close to her saggy breasts. “You look like a ghost. This place does you no good, Josephine.”
“I know,” I stepped back. “Are you coming inside this time?”
She turned up her nose. “Heavens, no—I’m here for you. I brought soup.”
“Soup,” I said. "Thanks.”
“It’s chicken.” Sister shook the thermos. “Take those sunglasses off. You’re inside.”
“I like them,” I said. “They’re mine.”
“You’re not your father.” She pursed her lips. “Take them off. Here.” She offered the soup.
The metal was cool under my fingertips.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Sister Grace had a polite, practiced smile with delta-river-wrinkles around her lips and eyes. I chewed the inside of my cheek. Sister Grace was old. She’d always been old—you used to call her Sister Grey. Not sure if it was because of her milky eyes or hair. It was as thin as the riverside wheat in the winter, and her shoes were blacker than the licorice she used to sneak me after service when you weren’t looking…
“...ought to be there, Josephine.”
I’d zoned out. “Sorry, what did y—”
“It’s a closed casket.” She held up her hand.
I tried not to frown. Ashes were so much prettier than a casket. I wished you were cremated; I think you deserved to burn.
“You won’t see a thing—like it never happened.”
Like it never happened?
“It’ll just be you and the Lord.” Sister Grace hummed. “You don’t even have to say a word.”
“It’s a public funeral.”
“Of course it is.” She smoothed out her skirt. “He was a public servant. You missed the family service. It’s only right you come to this one.”
“Family service,” I muttered. “Like anyone came.”
I had long left for college, and only God knew where Mom was. Your brother was somewhere west of Regina, kicking rocks. Or getting stoned. It made no difference to me.
“I did,” Sister Grace said. “Francis DeBauche was a…troubled man, but good.”
Good for nothing maybe. I didn’t want to talk anymore.
Sister Grace looked at me with those big blue eyes of hers like I was the scrawny dog who used to piss on her lawn.
“Service starts at noon.”
“Okay?”
“Just,” she sighed, “pray about it, child.” She left, black shoes scuffing against the floor.
I shut the door and stood alone. From the corner, the TV watched me. The volume was low but, through the static, I could hear your name on the news.
Your friends say you were murdered.
Except you weren’t. It wasn’t news, it was just a headline.
The cops said you were murdered—1:06 AM. Beaten bad to the bone behind that whorehouse of a bar. If they asked me, I’d say you killed yourself—stumbling home drunk with your sleazy friends. It didn't matter. Nobody asked me.
***
The cold bristled my coat as I passed the main street, leaves drifting. I smelled Mrs. Edgar’s bakery before I saw it—the cinnamon coated the air like butter on warm bread.
“Is that Josie?”
I pulled off my sunglasses.
“It is Josie!”
Mrs. Edgar waved from the patio. She held a broom and stood beside a boy. He looked no older than twelve, but he held a canned beer. It might've been his father’s, but I wasn't sure.
I waved sheepishly. I didn’t want to talk to her. But she just stood there, waiting.
“Hello, Mrs. Edgar,” I said. “How are you?”
She was a plump woman with cakey makeup to match. Not to mention her terrible purple eyeshadow—it looked like a bruise.
She took the can from the boy and ushered him inside. “I’ve been better. You know how things are here.”
I wish I didn’t. I hoped Mr. Edgar wasn’t home.
“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” she continued. “He was here just the other week…
“I always thought policemen and doughnuts were just some stereotype!” Mrs. Edgar always had a shake to her laugh. It was probably all those sweets that gave her jitters. “He loved his coffee black.”
“I guess so.” It was too cold for this. I glanced at the can. “He liked to drink bitter things.”
“Josephine DeBauche,” Mrs. Edgar stiffened, “do not say things like that. Sister Grace told me you were coming to the funeral, but not with an attitude like that.”
“Sorry…” I muttered. “I should get going anyways.”
“No, no,” she waved it off. “You’re welcome to stay. It’s always nice to see you, Josie.”
I played with my sunglasses. “It’s nice to see you…”
“One second, Josie,” Mrs. Edgar shook her head, and swung the bakery door open. “Sam! Get your father like I asked!”
“Your son?”
“You don't remember Sam?”
“A little,” I said.
“It's fine." She shook her head. “I think it was before you left for school. You’d babysit when Jack was…out with your dad.”
“Is Mr. Edgar home?”
The bakery door's bell chimed, and the actual Devil squeezed through the frame. The buttons of his police uniform threatened to pop open and his badge sat crooked as he pushed his way towards me.
“Josephine!” His thick mustache curled by the corner of his eyes. His cheeks were fat and wine-stained. “Last time I saw you, you were a bungalow…”
I coughed.
“…you’re a full house now!” He rushed over, arms wide. “Where’s this woman been hiding, Josie?”
I offered my hand instead. “Hello, Mr. Edgar.”
“Mister?” He shook his head. “That’s horseshit, Josie. I've known you since you were a baby. You oughta call me Jack now.”
He saw the grey can on the table and grabbed it. I dropped my hand. “Damn boy needs to stay out of my fridge.” He took a swig. “Sam’s got school tomorrow. Hell’s he doing with my pil’?”
He was so gross.
Mrs. Edgar sighed. “Jack, put that away.”
“It’s no harm, Elizabeth. It’s just a little something. You have your coffee crap.” He shrugged. “I’ll have mine.”
I put my sunglasses on.
“Say, ain’t those your daddy’s, Josie?” Mr. Edgar belched. “Stealing from the dead already?”
“Jack,” Mrs. Edgar gave him a look, "be sensitive."
If they kept bickering, I could slip away.
“Betsy, why would I be sensitive?” He picked a crumb from his mustache. "With all these assaults…gotta stay on edge.”
“I just thought—”
“Well, don’t.” He patted her back.
Mrs. Edgar flinched, but I said nothing. That wasn’t news either.
“It don’t do none of us good—so drop it, Betsy.”
I pulled my jacket closer to my body. “I should get going.”
“No!” Mrs. Edgar brushed hair from her purple eyes. “No, Josie…Why don’t you sit down and stay in Maple Creek awhile? The fresh air will do you good.”
“I moved," I shifted my feet, “to Calgary.”
“Alberta?" Mr. Edgar rubbed his wrist. “You still in school?”
“No.”
“You studied law, right?”
“Criminology.”
“You would've been a great lawyer,” Mrs. Edgar chirped. "When you were little, you always had…opinions.”
“Didn’t Francis do crime-ology or whatever?” Mr. Edgar asked his wife.
"I think he dropped out,”
“Oh yeah.” He brushed crumbs from his uniform. “Wasn’t the sharpest tool, Francis. But he was the best on the unit.”
Mrs. Edgar smiled softly. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“No,” I frowned, “not really. He’s a dropout.”
“Yes, but,” she glanced at Mr. Edgar, “he put the work in and made a man out of himself. That’s all we could ask for, God willing.”
“I guess,” I rubbed my hands.
“He's proud of you,” she beamed. “You know that.”
“Maybe,” I said.
They stared at each other, and then at me.
“I need to leave.”
Fixing his badge, he said, “I oughta go, too.” Mr. Edgar downed his drink and gave it to his wife. “I’ll see you at noon.”
Mrs. Edgar smiled stiffly. The longer I looked at her makeup, I slowly realized it was a bruise, hastily covered up.
“You said you needed to go, Josie?”
I did… but maybe she did, too.
***
I exhaled sharply, locking the front door.
I gathered sticky shards of glass and dented cans and tossed it all in the trash.
Something came over me when I was walking back from the bakery. I had this urge to wipe down everything you’d ever touched. My bones itched under my skin as I reached for a magazine. The cover was some drug-skinny model on a motorcycle she probably couldn’t even ride. And the pages were stuck together. Gross.
The sun struggled to shine through the curtains. I pulled them back and let the light in like a stranger. It washed over your bedroom door. I dragged my hands over my face.
You were still there—somewhere. If I could lose you, I would. But you were still there, somewhere under the floorboards. I reached for the door.
I had to know.
The hinge creaked like an old bone. I peeked inside. It smelled so…stale. Was there a body rotting in the bed? Were the walls mouldy? What if your room made me sick?
Sunlight crept through the blinds. I ran my hands over the peeling wallpaper. You were everywhere.
But you were gone.
The bottom drawer of your dresser was stuck open. I knelt and forced it all the way open, shuffling through stiff socks and loose change. Ticket stubs. Pornographic polaroids. Receipts.
I found one picture of us—dog-eared and sun-bleached. It was from maybe twenty-something years ago. I was sitting on your broad shoulders, an orange popsicle sweating in my grubby hands. I was Happy.
You were wearing your freshly pressed uniform and aviator sunglasses like a Prairie Maverick. Your pride was clipped to your chest, right above your heart.
I wondered if yours was just as gross as mine.
I smiled softly, pocketing it. I reached into the drawer, and then—I felt it.
It gleamed in the dull light, abandoned. I needed it—but only the same way I’d need a broken leg. It was heavier than I remembered. Your badge. I felt dirty, moving your stuff around. I shouldn’t be touching any of this. But still, I thumbed over its battered edges, gingerly, staring at my warped reflection.
Your funeral was in two hours. And I was here, sinking into your bed.
It was like someone ripped my heart out and forced me to eat it raw. I rocked back and forth. I hated it here.
I hated Maple Creek. Everyone had something to say about you—about me—but they didn’t know. I didn’t even know what this felt like.
***
The church was packed. Maple Creek was overflowing with chattering gossips and gulls. Mr. Edgar stood with a group of other cops and their wives. They called out…
Josie!
Hey, kiddo…
Where’s Mom been?
We missed you, Josephine.
What's happened?
She's a wreck.
Sorry about—
I heard he killed himself.
Don’t say that!
Please, he drank himself to death after the divorce.
Wouldn’t be surprised if Jack's next.
Who would?
… but I moved forward. I missed most of the service, but I didn’t care.
Before the altar, your casket was shut. Wilting petals littered the lid. I stood over it, waiting. For what? A second coming? Please. There was no use; my hands shook as I reached into my pocket, waiting for something good to happen. The hush behind me thickened as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t actually want that, I don’t think. Something good.
I just wanted my dad back.
Tomorrow morning, the sun would rise and you wouldn’t. But right now? It bled through the stained-glass windows, staining my skin. Your casket was cold, the wood too smooth to be real wood. I laid my hands down, petals brushing my fingertips like ashes. Old fat men killing themselves wasn’t news anymore—but I wanted it to be. I needed it to be.
I needed you. At least, I wanted to need you.
I left your badge on your casket, right where your heart should've been. However, I kept the picture for myself. It was mine, not theirs. Everyone acted like it was, but it wasn’t. You were mine, but I wasn’t yours.
***
The apartment is silent tonight as I pack my things. It’s holding its breath again, waiting. There’s no use; the sun has set, and the TV is off. The church is closed, the dead have been buried, and I’m leaving.
And for once, I’m fine with that.