Interbellum
Greer Watson
That Friday, Schanke left the delicatessen
with a bag that—he hoped—held all the things his wife had put on the list he’d forgotten
in his desk at work. At any rate, he knew he’d remembered the special extra-creamy potato salad,
the Montreal smoked meat, and that cheese with the holes in it. He couldn’t recall if
it was dark rye or pumpernickel she’d written, so he’d got both. And he’d
bought the calamari salad with the capers and ginger. Which wasn’t on the list: he just liked
it. (Myra didn't; but then he was the one doing the shopping, wasn’t he?)
He’d never figured out the real reason why his wife always insisted that he be the one
to go to the deli. But then, since she was the one who usually did the shopping, she
was the one with the comparison prices. Years ago, she had realized that, any time he
did the shopping at the Happy Souvlaki Deli, he came home with more for the money. She
didn’t know why; but, for some reason, the staff seemed to really, really like having him
pop in (nowadays with his snap-open, bright purple, reusable cloth shopping bag—the one
that embarrassed the hell out of him, but she insisted he keep in the glove compartment) and
order a stack of tubs and packages at the deli counter.
They had Myra’s pot roast dinner with the baked squash that evening, and cheesecake for dessert;
and she gave him a decent sized slice for once. Then he helped Jenny with her math
homework—at least until they checked the answers in the back of the book and found she’d
got more right than he had. (God, the math the kids had to do these days!) They’d all
watched Jenny’s new favourite, Doctor Who, if only for the sake of family time together. Then
Jenny headed reluctantly up to bed, and Myra started the dishwasher, while Schanke looked
through the TV listings to see if there was anything fit for a man to watch that wasn’t
a cop show. (He got enough of that at work.)
Later that night, as he came back from the bathroom, he was sure he saw Myra, with a worried
look on her face, give her favourite sweater a loving pat as she laid it over the back of the
chair. It didn’t make sense; and he pretended he hadn’t seen anything. He just changed into
the fancy pyjamas she’d found him for his birthday in Honest Ed’s—the ones with the mallards
on them—and got into bed. Still, he kept a close, secret eye on her. She opened each drawer
and looked inside; and he could have sworn she was counting, especially as she checked the
socks. And that wasn’t her socks—the ones for hiking, since she mostly wore tights, except
when she put on that garter belt and the thigh-highs with the lace tops (but that was only on
special occasions). No: it was his socks she seemed to be counting, which made no sense,
since she’d bought him four new pairs just last month.
Then she spent a remarkable amount of time looking through the closet.
By the time she got into a long-sleeved nightie, slipped into bed, and switched off the lamp,
he’d figured it out. Yeah. Yeah, it was that date, or nearly.
He wondered if Jenny had checked her wardrobe before going to bed. He doubted it. Not just
because he’d looked in before turning out the light, and she’d said nothing—and, when he’d
gone in just now and tucked up the blanket, she’d been sleeping the sleep of the innocent. No,
it was because she was still just a kid; and a year’s a long time at that age. She’d probably
forgotten all about it. He remembered, though. (He could hardly forget.)
And he’d been the lucky one, with his old
moose jammies. Myra’d decided to wear her new negligée that night; and it had been very sheer,
and very black...apart from the scarlet lace. She’d hardly dared let even her own daughter see
her in the light of day.
(Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen that negligée since. She’d probably thrown it out.)
He leaned close. “You thinking what I'm thinking?” he murmured in his wife’s ear.
“Not tonight, Donnie,” she murmured back. “I’m not really in the mood right
now.”
“No, not that,” he said softly. “I mean...last year. You thinking of last year?”
She reached out and turned the light on. “You remember,” she said.
“Who could forget?”
He propped himself up on one elbow, and they shared a long, long look. There had been
some embarrassing phone calls as they’d tried to chase up some clothes they could wear;
and no comprehensible explanation either of them could give, except “someone” playing a
practical joke. Only after he’d called in sick that afternoon—he’d been on night shift that
month—did they begin to figure out what had really happened.
“Y’know,” he said softly, “there's no reason to think they’re in
town again right now.” He plucked at the warm flannel nightgown to make his point.
“Just playing it safe,” she said, with a trace of embarrassment.
“I get it.” He lay back. “I don’t blame you. There’s
no saying what shenanigans the fans’ll get up to when they have a War.”
“Do you think they’ll come back to Toronto again?” Myra asked.
“How do I know?”
The fans come when they come, Schanke thought. If they had some schedule they kept to,
he certainly didn’t know what it was!
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A previous version of this story was posted to FKFIC-L@LIST.PSU.EDU
on Saturday, October 02, 2011 8:11 AM.
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