Landing by Emma Donoghue

  Jude felt ridiculously nervous as they crunched up Main Street hand in hand, toward the crossroads.

  "Shades of Narnia," laughed Síle under her breath: "one streetlight and a lot of snow."

  There were about a dozen drinkers in the Dive. "Jeez," boomed Rizla, "the honeymooners managed to stagger out of bed."

  Jude said in his ear, "Remember I promised you could meet her if you promised not to be a jerk?"

  He shook her off, enclosed Síle's hand in his beefy one, helped her off with her jacket, and insisted she take his stool. "Go right ahead, my fat ass's had enough sitting around."

  Síle crossed her legs seductively, despite the borrowed snow boots, and smiled up at him. In her bright skirt and beaded Rajasthani jacket, she stood out against the comfortable casuals the locals were wearing, quite apart from being the only South Asian face in the village.

  "Dave," said Rizla, "may I present Síle O'Shaughnessy from Dublin, Ireland?"

  The bartender wore a wary smile. "Whatever you say, Riz. Now, what can I get you, ma'am? Sleeman's, Upper Canada..."

  "Actually, Dave," said Síle, her accent strengthening as she leaned over the bar, "I'm not too fond of the old beer. What I'd love is a chocolate martini, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

  "A chocolate martini?"

  Rizla wiggled his eyebrows at Jude.

  "Made with crème de cacao, you know?" said Síle.

  "I'll have a look in the back," Dave said abstractedly.

  In his absence, Jude told Síle that she might have to settle for a straight martini.

  Síle widened her eyes. "Place your trust in the global economy. My local supermarket stocks Ontario maple syrup."

  And indeed, five minutes later, Dave came in brandishing a dusty bottle of crème de cacao. Rizla and Síle looked up from their discussion of their favourite Simpsons episodes to applaud. Jude thought, This woman is a magic wand.

  Dave rested on his elbows and examined the visitor more closely. "That sure is a nice accent you've got. I thought Rizla here must be pulling my leg, because you don't look Irish."

  Jude stiffened.

  Síle beamed back at him. "And the funny thing is, Dave, I've been told I don't look like a lesbian, either."

  Dave blinked once, twice. "Well, pleasure to meet you," he said blankly, taking a swipe at the counter with his cloth before heading into the back.

  Rizla pounded the bar in Silent mirth. "Two-nil to the Fighting Irish! You shut that dickhead up."

  "Poor Dave," Síle murmured, "and after he made me a perfect chocolate martini..."

  "I bet you don't take any shit from your passengers."

  "I take infinite amounts of shit from them," Síle corrected him, "which is why, when I'm off-duty, I speak my mind."

  Jude felt all the strings in her body loosen.

  "Yeah, this whole area was Mohawk hunting grounds," Rizla was telling Síle when Jude tuned in again, "till we sold it to the Crown in the early eighteenth century."

  "You mean early 1800s," Jude reminded him.

  He ignored that. "I'm not actually Status, though."

  "Sorry, you've lost me," said Síle.

  "Mom wasn't a Status Indian once she married a Dutchman. She had to leave the rez," he explained, "so they raised eleven of us in a farmhouse a ways west of Brantford."

  "Eleven!"

  He shrugged. "Well, you know, it's that or disappear."

  "But you haven't had any yourself?" Síle asked.

  "Nah," he said, "just lots of nieces and nephews. See, it's like sports: I'd rather watch hockey players smash each other's heads in on TV than actually play a game myself. Aren't the Irish big breeders too?"

  "Less so, nowadays, since we don't kowtow to the Church so much," she told him; "I think the average family's down to three point nine. And my parents only had two."

  "Got bored of the old bump 'n grind?" suggested Rizla. "Took a vow of abstinence?"

  "My mother died when I was three." After a second, Síle grinned. "Now don't you feel like a crass bastard?"

  "Not for the first time nor the last," he said, and insisted on buying the next round.

  Dave was still subdued, eyes averted. "He'll be lying awake half the night, wondering what to make of you," Jude whispered in Síle's ear. "I bet he'll share it with his Bible Encounter Group."

  "Whoops, have I muddied your reputation?"

  "Too late for that," she said, laughing.

  Síle looked around the bar speculatively. "So what's the local demographics—mostly farmers? That pair behind us have been discussing their alfalfa yield for half an hour," she whispered.

  "Yeah, mostly dairy and cash crop," said Rizla. "Those guys playing euchre work for Dudovick's Turkeys."

  "Luke Randall—" Jude nodded at a man reading the Globe and Mail—"is a manager of a bank in Stratford. Behind us is Greg Devall, the TV executive whose bloody SUV killed my red setter Trip," she added under her breath.

  Síle narrowed her eyes, like a mobster memorizing his face.

  "But you know, unless you're old stock, here at least a hundred years, you don't count as local," said Jude. "Dad was third-generation on his father's side, but his mother was a Home Child; she was sent out here from England at the age of nine."

  "What'd she done?" asked Síle.

  "It wasn't meant as a prison sentence! Though in some cases it turned out that way," Jude explained; "in theory it was a fresh start as farm labourers for orphans from the home country."

  "You've got great triceps for a girly gal, Síle," Rizla remarked, gripping her bare arm. Jude thought Síle might object, but instead she tensed it for him. "You work out?"

  "No, she stacks trays at ten thousand metres," Jude reminded him.

  "Right. I'm Site, Fly Me!" he said in a lewd falsetto. "Hey, so when I was flying round the world, I noticed you trolley dollies disappear for hours. Whatcha doing, chewing the fat back there?"

  "Yeah, we pass round the duty-free vodka," Síle told him, "that's how we manage the permanent glazed smile. Actually, the real money's in the sex; it's 荤50 for every hand job, and 荤100 for a fuck in the toilet."

  Rizla blinked at her, and then released such an enormous laugh that the euchre players looked up. Licking his finger, he chalked one on the air for Síle.

  They had a game of pool. "I taught Jude here all she knows," Rizla explained.

  "So how come I beat you nine times out of ten?" asked Jude, racking them up.

  Síle kept messing up her shots. "Everything's the wrong size here, I'm getting vertigo," she complained, laughing. "The table's too low, the balls are too big, and spotted instead of red or yellow..."

  "If you stayed a week you'd get the hang of it," Rizla told her. "I could give you a crash course in being a Canuck."

  "I already fell off a sled twice today."

  "That's a start, but you gotta skate and Ski-doo, you gotta shoot things—"

  "Don't listen to him," said Jude.

  "—and you gotta tell Newfie jokes. You hear about the Newfie who's so lazy he married a pregnant woman?"

  "I know that one," Síle protested, "but it's about a Kerryman."

  "Yeah," Jude put in, "and the Spanish probably say it about the Portuguese."

  "This other Newfie, he goes to the hospital in St. John's, says, 'I want to be castrated.'" Rizla's eyebrows leapt up. "'You sure about that?' says the doctor. 'Yeah yeah boy,' says the Newfie, 'I'm telling you I want to be castrated.' So after the op, he wakes up in a room with another patient. He says 'Hey, you boy, what operation you got done?' The other guy says he's been circumcised. 'Dammit to hell,' says the Newfie, 'dat's de word I was looking for!'"

  Jude groaned, but Síle and Rizla were raucous with mirth.

  She breathed in and thought, forty-six smokeless hours down, only a lifetime to go. Her lover was Síle O'Shaughnessy. Her head was a shaken kaleidoscope. Anything was possible.

  But coming back from the washroom (where, as happened every couple of months, some st
ranger had given Jude's hair a startled look as if to say, "This is the Ladies!"), she got the impression that the atmosphere had cooled.

  "Another quick one?" said Rizla.

  "I don't think so," said Síle, covering a yawn.

  On the street outside, he gave them both crushing hugs, and strolled off in the direction of his trailer. The night was clear and starry. "You have a good time?" asked Jude.

  No answer. Síle was looking down at Rachel Turner's boots as they squeaked on the flattened snow. "Rizla thinks you must be really into me, to give up smoking."

  "You know I am," said Jude warily.

  "He said, and I quote, 'She's a closet romantic, is my wife.'"

  Bastard, thought Jude. Had he been planning this masterstroke the whole evening? All that broke the Silence was the creak of their footsteps.

  "Is that just his little nickname for you? Wife?"

  "Well," said Jude, her chest tight, "I mean, it's technically true—"

  "Technically?" Síle pulled up short, and almost slipped on the ice.

  Jude put a hand out to steady her, but Síle shook it off. "We split nearly seven years ago."

  "But you're telling me you two were actually married?"

  "For less than a year." Her voice was uneven.

  "Why didn't I hear about this before?"

  Jude shrugged. "There's a lot of details you and I haven't got around to swapping yet."

  "Details?"

  "Getting married at eighteen was a dumb mistake; I hadn't even reached the legal drinking age. I prefer to forget it."

  "Still, you could have told me. My jaw fell into my lap, back there; I felt like a complete feckin' eejit."

  "I'm sorry."

  Síle started walking again, slapping her gloves together to warm her hands, and Jude thought maybe the conversation was over, which was fine by her.

  "Sure I know loads of Irishwomen who got married before they knew better," said Síle, her tone softening into exasperation. "So you got divorced, what, when you were nineteen?"

  "Well, that's when I moved out." Jude made herself add, "We haven't actually got around to finalizing the paperwork yet, because Rizla's broke, and I wasn't going to pay for it all myself."

  Síle turned, her tawny eyes hawklike in the streetlight. Cheapskate, Jude thought; I should have borrowed from the bank. "You didn't ask much about him," she said, going on the offensive; "you don't seem to count guys."

  A tense pause. "Well, it's true that's my blind spot."

  "C'mon home before we freeze," she said, tucking her arm into Síle's and heading down Main Street.

  After a minute, Síle said "Okay, sorry to harp on, but just to clarify—you're still legally married, but you haven't been involved in over six years."

  Jude tried to swallow. Involved, what did that mean? One cigarette, that's all she needed. "Right, we haven't been a couple."

  But of course Síle heard the equivocation, and her eyes turned on Jude like a searchlight. "The last time you slept with him," she said, spelling it out as if to a child, "it was more than six years ago?"

  Messy, messy. "Well, no," said Jude, letting out a long plume of steam.

  Síle had dropped her arm. "When was it?"

  "Beginning of March."

  "Which March?"

  "This one just gone."

  "Last month?" Síle stood and stared up at the cavernous sky, breathing in and out like a horse. "Then what the fuck am I doing here?"

  She was one of those women who looked superb when angry, Jude thought; her hair stood out like a crackling halo. Jude was waiting for the right words to turn up in her mouth, but—

  "What exactly was the point of this mad trip to the frozen arse-hole of the world?" asked Síle, breaking away to the other side of the street. "I thought you were a dyke. So you're still bi, is that what you're telling me?"

  "Those are your words," said Jude thickly.

  "Well go ahead, pick one you like." Síle waited. "You certainly let me believe you were single."

  "Because I am. Was, till now, I mean," she corrected herself miserably. "You don't get it."

  "Get what? The erotic appeal of a not-quite-ex-husband with oil under his nails? Who are you people?"

  Jude caught her by the sleeve. "Shut up for a second."

  "Oh, now you want to do the talking," Síle almost screamed. "Go ahead, delight me with some more little details. Next you'll be telling me there's a kid! I can't believe I left Kathleen for you."

  Now, that was low. "It was your decision."

  "Decision?" Síle repeated, sardonic. "It was a leap in the fucking dark!"

  Jude took a breath. "Why are you doing this, Síle?"

  "What? What am I doing?"

  "Making some big old volcano out of a molehill," said Jude. "There's no kid. There's no sinister conspiracy. So I wound up in bed with my ex once in a while; haven't you ever done that?"

  "I've never been that desperate," said Síle with scorn.

  "We weren't desperate," insisted Jude. "It only happened a couple of times a year. It was about ... company. Comfort." She had a hunch all these words were getting her nowhere. Her newfound happiness was teetering like an icicle in a thaw. She took a step nearer to Síle. "So the last time it happened to happen was at the beginning of March, and I told Riz that was it, over and done with, because it felt wrong, because all I could think about was you."

  Síle blew into her gloved hands. "You're the one who doesn't get it," she said, gravely. "This isn't about sex. I don't care who you slept with last month, though from this weekend on I care a lot. What I can't stand is being fooled."

  "I—"

  "This was a big fat lie of omission! You should have told me what I was walking into and you know it. I'm a stranger in this peculiar little world of yours." A ragged breath. "I've gutted my whole life like a fish because you said you loved me."

  "I do," Jude groaned.

  "I don't just want to fuck you, I want to know you."

  "I was always going to tell you the whole story of me and Riz," Jude said weakly. "There's things that are hard to explain in writing or over the phone. Sometimes it's better to wait for the right moment."

  "What, like this one?" asked Síle, waving at the deserted street, the black speckled sky.

  Peak Time

  If I was a blackbird,

  I'd whistle and sing,

  And I'd follow the ship

  that my true love sails in,

  —ANON

  If I Was a Blackbird

  Síle, Marcus, and Jael were eating overpriced sushi in a Temple Bar restaurant made entirely of hard, noisy surfaces. "It's like lunching in a xylophone," Marcus complained at the top of his voice.

  "This is what burying yourself in the sticks does," Jael told him, "you've lost all your urban armour already and it's only been two months."

  "I'm growing lettuce, parsnips, leeks, and kale, and building a solarium," he remarked.

  "Yeah, and I'm growing sick of smug, back-to-nature gits. And what's that on your head?"

  "Tweed has made a comeback," Síle put in, nibbling a bit of pickled ginger.

  "Not in the form of an aul-fella's cap."

  "The shaved head seemed a bit much, in Leitrim," said Marcus sheepishly, adjusting his cap. "I suspect the neighbours think I'm having chemo."

  "And as for you—" Jael threatened Síle with a chopstick. "I thought this Canadian thing was meant to be casual?"

  Síle was caught off guard. "No, you said it sounded fun so long as it stayed casual." She was failing to hide her smile.

  "I hope you realize she could keep succumbing to the hairy charms of the Neanderthal around the corner?"

  "Mm," Marcus chipped in, "hubby in the caravan does sound like a bit of an obstacle."

  "He is neither hairy nor an obstacle," said Síle, her voice rising. She almost wished she hadn't told them the full story. "It only happened in a very occasional, low-key way; it wasn't like they were in love."

  "N
o, just married," said Jael with a snigger.

  "Divorced, bar the paperwork," she snapped.

  "Okay, but even if she's mad about you, long-distance relationships are sinkholes for time and energy," Jael warned her.

  "Sure, anything more than lying on the sofa takes energy," she protested. "Anton's busy, but he finds time for tae kwon do, doesn't he?"

  "Don't talk to me about tae bloody kwon do! It's just an excuse to get away from me and Ys on Saturday afternoons. No, but remember when I was wooing that ex-nun in Portugal?" asked Jael. "What a load of faffing about, waiting for the post to arrive!"

  "That was pre–e-mail, Granny," Marcus put in. "Between the Internet and cheap fares, it's never been a better time to fall for someone far away."

  Síle grinned at him. "Anyway, it's happened, so it's not as if I have a choice."

  "Of course you do. Dykes and their tortured romanticism!" Jael bolted her saki. "If you must keep it up, keep it light. What about phone sex? I tried it a few times with that policewoman in Australia."

  "Why only a few?" asked Marcus.

  "Did it make you feel lonely?" asked Síle. "I've often thought it might be sad—you know, the unbridgeable gap between word and flesh."

  "No, it was just too expensive," said Jael. "It took her so long to come, it cost about thirty quid a go."

  They howled. "I suppose you could have got the Aussie to warm herself up beforehand," said Síle, "then ring you for the big climax."

  "Oh, and once with Anton," Jael added, "when he was overnighting in Belfast and he'd had too much coffee to fall asleep."

  "Was he easier?" Marcus asked.

  "Two minutes, max! I kept Six Feet Under on mute; I barely missed any of it."

  "I can never tell whether you make things up to sound outrageous," said Síle, "or live outrageously so you'll have things to tell your friends."

  "Live outrageously? I wish! To think that I used to be truly wild," Jael lamented through a mouthful of rice. "Promiscuous, peripatetic, breaking hearts hither and yon. And now I'm a suburban mammy with an easy-maintenance haircut."

  "You've still got a pierced tongue," Marcus comforted her.

  "No, it's grown over," she said thickly, sticking it out.

  Síle let out a cry of disappointment.