Chapter 2

Somewhere in a pile of duvet and pillows Juarez opens her eyes and pokes her toes out to check the temperature.  Spread like a frog she lays flat on her tummy; hips turned outward, the insides of her knees pressed into the mattress, toes flexed back as though they were pressing against an invisible box.   

The air is as stale above the heap of goose down as it is below.  This heat would suffocate most but Juarez finds comfort in it.  She looks for the alarm clock to check how long her nap lasted.  It is ten o’clock at night.  She slept for an hour.  Before making an attempt to get up, her palm searches against the length of her body until it finds the arc between the mattress and her pelvic bone.  

It is here she recounts her afternoon, her fingers confirming the vivid clash between boy and girl.  She thinks about the nights they shared together so many moons ago, about the first time they laid eyes on each other. 

***

It was Canada Day in small town Sarnia.  Red and white banners spilled from every ledge, Canadian flags plastered to every window.  A parade was taking place on Christina Street and herds of working class families lined the sidewalks to watch the beaming kids march like mini patriots toward Canatara Park.  It was there that the real festivities would begin.  Food from around the world was prepared to carnival perfection behind long plastic tables, shaded under white ten by ten canopies and served by the ethnic minorities of a town that never seemed to change in population.   

Juarez was always first in line for the spring rolls on Canada Day as she was every Saturday at the farmer’s market.  It was an addiction she could not control; she was hooked on the crunch of the deep fried pastry that wrapped around the sweet tangy juices of pork and vegetables inside.  That year she would have to be late; the chain on her twelve-speed kept coming off the gears and she had to brake every few blocks to remount it.  

“Not again,” she muttered to herself as she looked for a place to wipe the oil that was building in layers on her fingertips.  Sweat was dripping down her forehead, her long espresso hair falling in her face and sticking to the beads as they formed in the July humidity.  Even the shade of the willow tree could not cut the water from the air as it hung in solemn empathy for those who passed underneath; it too was exhausted just by standing around.  

From the concrete steps of a neighbouring house, a teenage boy with thick chestnut hair braided down to his shoulder blades watched Juarez fiddle with her chain and laughed as she grew more irritated, her vision blurred by wet strands and frustration.  He plucked away at the six strings of his Yamaha, filling the scene with his soundtrack.  Trying to manoeuvre the backs of her hands while her fingers stuck straight out like a zombie, she brushed her hair off her face and kicked the bicycle. 

“Fuck you, bike.”  She argued. “You are making me late for spring rolls and I am not happy.”  

He watched her fight with the machine for endless minutes, humming as he played, and thinking of ways to put words to the gong show on the sidewalk.  He observed her kneel down behind the beat up bicycle to replace the chain; her white t shirt was three sizes too big, the front tucked into her denim shorts that frayed above the pockets as they peeked out like pale blue tongues licking her legs.  A rectangular black purse of fringe and deer hide was strung across her body like a beauty queen’s sash and scraped against the sidewalk with every yank of the chain.  On closer inspection he could make out a button attached to her sac that looked like a medicine wheel; all four colours of the directions represented in equal portions, white pointed north.  From his vantage, he would swear she was native, except that he had never seen her before and he knew everyone in town with Indian blood.  Whatever her heritage, he was not about to let her leave without an introduction; this girl was too entertaining, especially in her oblivion.

“Need some help?” He called out.

Startled by the strange voice, Juarez jerked her sweaty head up and knocked it with a loud bang on the handle bars that hovered over her. 

“Ouch, dammit!” She cussed.  

He hung his face, hiding his laughter as she strained to find a better place for her oily hands than on the bike or her body.  Red boiled in her cheeks as her hair once again swung about her in unpredictable patterns, sticking to anything that seeped with the perspiration of her labours.  At once, she patted her forehead to soothe the goose egg that grew immediately from the collision and reached toward the falling two-wheeler as it crashed onto the concrete, the built-up oil from her previous efforts smeared every place her frenzied palms connected.  

He snorted so loud she could make out his direction and stood to see who was so amused by her less than ideal predicament.  He mirrored her as she stood, guitar at his side on the concrete steps.  She was not native, he concluded, but earthy, of the earth somehow; as if she sprouted up like a vine and unfurled long leaf-like limbs, her skin adorned with delicate petals; a cherry blossom tree, perhaps, with the un-grace of a newborn horse.   

Juarez took a deep breath and let out a big sigh.  It was not the first time she starred in a Keystone Cops episode; this was her style.  She was a bona fide klutz with the scars to prove it.  She froze and smiled at the young man holding her favourite instrument, black streaks across her forehead; her white t shirt destroyed with oily fingerprints, legs smeared with dirt and grease.

“I think I might,” she gestured at her bike and face, shrugged her shoulders and wiped her hands on a once-white over sized tee.  “I’m Juarez.”  

“Clark.”  He said, and pointed to the chaos.  “It looks like you pretty much accomplished the complete opposite of your goal, here.  I don’t think I have ever seen that happen to someone with so much…familiarity…before.”  He picked up her bike, reaffixed the chain and bent the gear back to its original shape, preventing any future chain-link disasters.  Palms up, she shrugged her shoulders for a second time; the right side of her lips curled along with her eyebrows.

“As a matter-of-fact,” she stated, "This was nothing."   

Clark shook his head in disbelief.  He looked at his filthy hands and back at Juarez who then offered her t shirt. He accepted, wiping the oil clean.  Neither of them could wipe the smiles from their faces if they wanted to and they stood there with toothy grins anticipating what the other was going to say next.

“Nice guitar you got there, Clark.”  Juarez chimed in, “you any good?”

“I would like to think so, but I can’t believe everything my parents say.  You know how that goes.”

“Right,” Juarez said, but she only knew it as a spectator.  Praise was not something the fifteen year old girl was accustomed to, unless of course, it had to do with her appearance.  “You should play something for me,” She says, “I’ll let you know, you know, if you are actually as good as your mom says.”

“Are you offering to judge me?”  He teased.

“Yes.  That is what I am offering you.”  Juarez agreed in her usual sarcasm.  “But I will only offer once.  Keep in mind I have a keen ear and my parents did sing at the Sky Dome for a Beaver Jamboree, so I have extremely high standards.”  

Clark gripped the top of his braid and ran his hand down to the paint brush-like tip while he thought it over.

“It’s almost a deal.”  He said.  “But first, I want to know why you are headed down my street when clearly, the parade is the other way.”

“Right, so I was skipping the parade so I could be first in line for the spring rolls at Canatara.” Juarez was enjoying his subtle flirting.  There was something about him that made her feel calm and secure; like she had been there before.  But there was this other component, this missing piece to her puzzle:  he made it okay for her to speak, a rare occurrence which only existed with close friends and, of course, her greasy bicycle.  “Tell you what, Clark; if you have any talent whatsoever, I will invite you to join me for lunch.”

 “And if I suck?” he asked.

“You better not suck.”

“Oh, a tough guy,” he laughed, and with that he planted himself on the curb and started to play.  

Delicate tones drifted and danced from his instrument as he picked and plucked and tapped; they were sounds from another dimension that trapped his audience of one and held her hypnotized six inches above the earth. Juarez sat next to him, mesmerized by the unsuspecting beauty that formed from his fingers.  She closed her eyes; for once she could breathe so deeply her whole body seemed to float above the grass.   

Then Clark began to sing.  He sang about watching life unfold from his front stoop, from the outside looking in, as a stranger to the world around him. Juarez absorbed the vibrations.  They gently peeled back layers of a protective shell she had unknowingly encased around her lonely heart. Tears streamed out of her like glass ribbons, releasing some long ago hurt that she never even knew existed.  She stayed there without her armour, and he sang directly into her exposed core.  When the song ended, there was nothing left but the bond of silence.

“You…did not suck at all.”  She laughed as she wiped her face, correcting her eye liner and sniffling. “Clark would you like to join me for spring rolls in the park?”

“I would love to Juarez, but under one condition.” He said. 

“What’s that?”  

Clark looked at Juarez with the same seriousness her teachers gave her when her grades dropped the year before. “Will you please change your shirt?  You look like you got in a fight with a mechanic.  I can’t be seen with you like this. I’ll give you one of mine.”  He took her in the house and handed her an over sized white tee.  “I only wore it this morning,” he reassured her.  While she cleaned up, he unlocked his bike and waited for her outside.

“Ta dah!”  She sang, presenting herself in his gift, wafts of his morning cologne distracting her focus.

He waited for her to climb on to her twelve-speed and decided not to tell her that she missed a small smear of black below her eye.  Clark wanted to remember this moment in all its perfection and peculiarity for as long as he could. Instead, he clapped his hands for her and the sound echoed down the street. 

***

Juarez breaks her hands free from reminiscing and checks the time.  It is still only ten pm.  She launches herself into the first step to her beauty ritual; a cleansing shower with Fleetwood Mac blaring in the background.  Maybe it was the heat that had her mind on Clark, maybe it was a part of their natural rhythm.   It could have been a lot of things, but nothing to waste another minute on.  Juarez was not about to go too far back in time for fear of never returning.

 

Chapter 1

Juarez fans her fingertips in front of her laptop like a deck of cards to inspect for any chipped paint or imperfections.  Other than a slight smudge on the top corner of her left index finger, her nails are neatly manicured with a pale Easter yellow.  She lets out a sigh as her poised body slumps back into the antique chair that was left to her by her grandfather twelve years ago.

“This, my dear, is the world’s greatest thinking chair,” he proclaimed as she gracefully leaned over his writing desk, memorizing his beloved black and white pictures that he kept protected under glass.  Glazed wood veneers paneled his den walls like an unearthed cave in the middle of suburbia, a look she never cared for.   It was too dark for Juarez, too old and constricting for her taste.  She was sixteen then and loved the light airy features of big bay windows and factory high ceilings.  “All my finest thoughts have come to me while writing in this chair.” His voice resonated, proud and humble, wise.  “And when I am gone, I want you to have it.” Her eyes traced and re traced the photographs, her lips curled into a smile, not a single sound coming from between them.  “I have to warn you, Puppet,” he continued, “for every great notion you have sitting here, there is the opposite, and your mind will be a dusty old warehouse of duality for as long as you live.  Do not be afraid of those un-great visions; they too have their contrary.”

Neither one of them knew that the thinking chair would be passed on to her that same winter, that the old man would be hit by a snow plough as he shoveled alongside it, cursing the city workers as they passed.  No one knew that the famous prize had been promised to Juarez or why for that matter.  Unlike Grandpa, she was quiet and shy.  So quiet, some would joke, that it was if she never had a thought inside her.  It wasn’t as though she needed thoughts anyway, they laughed.  What was such a pretty girl at her age going to do with brains?  The way they figured, she could stand there in silence for all of eternity and still have the world handed to her on a platter of her choosing.

Juarez reaches into her desk drawer and retrieves her correction kit; a cotton swab, a bottle of nail polish remover, and the polish.  With surgical precision she dabs the coated swab to remove the flaw, blends the yellow glob over her nail bed, blows lightly on the wet paint and places her kit back into the drawer.

Adjusting her posture on the old wooden chair, Juarez begins to type:

How to Choose the Perfect Platter

Staging one’s table is a fine art and platters are the foundation to any presentation.  Urban Paradise Magazine has put together five incredible looks your guests will simply swoon over!  All you have to do is decide which style is perfect for your special occasion.

Within two hours Juarez finishes the article.  To avoid annoying phone calls from her editor, she checks for errors or inconsistencies and make the appropriate changes ahead of time.  She does not want to be disturbed today, her work is done and she would rather be outside.  She emails the document to JenniferEditor@UrbanParadiseMagazine.com and straps her feet into a pair of worn out Nike’s. 

Afternoon sun reaches its highpoint over the skyscrapers of Toronto; its heat at the sidewalk bakes the bags of garbage as they await their destiny, reeking of yesterday’s dinner, dog shit and would-be compostables.  Juarez makes note of the smell as she jogs past, wondering if there is an article somewhere in there for her.  Something about worms and organics, reducing waste, something everyone has heard before but does nothing about.  This is the beauty of her profession.  She has written the same article fifty times with different angles, nuances, or for fun, a top ten list.  Jogging helps her shed new light on old topics, today is no different.

Heading north from College Avenue, Juarez notices how much Palmerston looks as though it were a film set for Desperate Housewives.  Large oak and cherry trees line the sidewalks offering perfect shade to a girl with a running habit.  Little Italy, they call it, one of many cozy boroughs surrounding the downtown core.  

Maybe she had it planned in her mind, perhaps there is no such thing as a plan, but on this hot August afternoon and without a second thought, Juarez turns on her heels, looking for an address she has seen only once and in the dark of night, a year and a half earlier.   

There it is; 122 Palmerston, red brick and cream trim, three stories high as all Victorian homes in this neighbourhood are built. 

She whips herself up the wrap around porch and rings the doorbell before her mind can reason with her otherwise.  Panting, hands placed on the edges of her hip bones, fingers pressed into the firm stomach that years of dancing and running have gifted her with, Juarez counts down from twenty to give the solid wood door time to open.

Two. 

One. 

Zero.  

With a shrug, she turns to finish her jog.

“Juarez?  Is that you?”  She has heard him call out to her as she walks away before, knows his voice like a favourite song, inside and out.  She nods her head, still facing the cars that park along the curb, breathless from exertion.  “Get in here.”  He says.

With her head down, shoulders hunched and hands to her mouth she walks her five foot frame into his open arms, buries her face into the familiar scent of his chest and walks with him inside.  He hugs her from behind and together they climb the dark planks all the way up to the third story. 

His bedroom walls are painted with steel gray and trimmed with white ornate mouldings.  Every inch of space has been meticulously accounted for.  Built-in floor to ceiling cabinets flanked with French glass doors line the whole east wall.  Framed eagle feathers and a medicine wheel accent the north side just above a king size bed.  The downward sloping angles of the roof form effortlessly around a small circular table and two chairs pulled into it that peer out the window and face the treetops outside.  They are so far off the ground the rest of the avenue seems to disappear through the cloud-like leaves as though they have entered a cathedral in time.

He guides her to the edge of the bed, kissing on her salty neck.  Juarez closes her eyes.  She does not deserve to be here.  How dare she show up, unannounced, like an apparition with an agenda?   She can feel his fingers, calloused from years of mastering a roomful of instruments as they gather her turquoise tank top and scan her tiny back as it arches toward him, begging for their return.   

He lifts her arms above her head, noticing how her hands barely extend higher than his six foot stature and removes the garment, exposing fine blond hairs that will soon enough be catching more sweet and sacred sweat.  He would play her like a mandolin; play a symphony on her olive skin if he knew how long he had with her.  But he knows there are no guarantees with Juarez so he folds her over the unmade bed and undresses her while there is still time.   

No words exchanged, no pleas for justification, nothing more than the cool sheets against her skin, her skin against his.  He does not ask for permission, her presence is all he requires to proceed.  They have agreed to this arrangement since they were fifteen years old, this is how they love each other.  This is the only way she will let him love her and he takes what he can get, no questions asked.

Afterward, they lay in his bed, draped in silence, making soft strokes on the skin of one another as though they were painting landscapes in oil; following curves of skin, angles of shadow and light.  The trees outside sway as they dip their branches in pockets of wind, rustling in quiet excitement; any breeze is a good breeze in the eighth month of the year. 

Juarez looks up at his thick mess of dark chestnut hair and wonders if he will ever lose it, if he will eventually join the club of receding hairlines and how he would fare in the world without his crowning glory.  She seems to be forever looking up at him.  He catches her hazel eyes as they absorb his and for an instant they lock into the sentiment of their history.  A tear escapes her gaze and descends down a high cheek bone inherited from her deceased grandfather.   

This is her cue to leave.  

Like a gazelle moving from one watering hole to the next, Juarez dresses and swiftly descends down the three flights of stairs, out the solid wood door and on to the front porch.  She can hear him thumping his weight behind her, trying to catch up and she gives him the benefit of a few more seconds to say goodbye.  The goodbye is for his sake; who knows when she will be back.  For all they know, it could be another year and a half before they meet again.  Or three.  Or never.  In the company of a black squirrel, an oak and the orange bursts of tiger lilies, he squeezes Juarez as though it were their final embrace.  Juarez pulls back from his grip without a word, without making eye contact and sprints away.

“Bomapee.”  He calls out in Ojibwa as she runs the second half of Palmerston.  See you again.  He scratches his ear, feels where she left her breath and hopes his words carried far enough into her mind to bring her back a little sooner. 

Around the corner Juarez stretches her calf on a mailbox and feels the faint chafing of paper on her hip.  Bothered by the scratching, she reaches down to adjust the elastic on her waistband and pulls a folded hundred dollar bill into her view.  Scribbled in haste with a black sharpie pen is his handwriting.

For food, it says.  She flips the bill to the other side and reads the rest of his instructions.  Be good to yourself.

Just as the sun begins its descent behind the glass houses in the sky, Juarez returns to her bachelor apartment, both hands full of the groceries he funded plus a bottle of pinot grigio.  Writing for an online Magazine is a dream-come-true for the twenty eight year old, but it doesn’t pay the bills. 

***