The Dots Across Her Nose

She turns from the sidewalk into the driveway just as she has done all week. Her lunch in a plastic bag in one hand. In heavy work boots for a slender girl. Not that they slow her down any. She has a natural light step to her walk. With a quick hitch inside the step. Part of the way she seems to do everything. Not really impatient or rushed. Just accelerated.1

The only real change each day when she appears is her hair. And okay, the one day she showed up in sun glasses with a hangover. But part of that was lack of sleep from the early start of the construction crew. Building new counters and cupboards in the apartment above her. “Cotton batting in my ears and my head under 3 pillows wasn’t enough,” she explained that day.2

Tim Becker is squatting down on the upright bricks of the flower garden along the side of the house. When she comes to a sudden halt above him. A lit cigarette in the fingers of her free hand dangling before his eyes.3

He looks up and she’s smiling. No, more like smirking. Like the Mona Lisa, where you’re not quite sure what she's finding so amusing. And if it’s you, the thought’s not so reassuring.4

So all week she’s had her hair piled up in the back or with a curl on each side or a blue kerchief over it or even styled in falling waves. He wanted to think of the falling waves as a magistrate’s wig, something pompous and flaunted. But no, it was beautiful. In a tumbling auburn sheen. But today he liked it best. Hung in a loose ponytail down her back.5

She’s smirking at him. Or looking closely at him while smirking. All in a casual way as usual. So that he feels she’s just letting him know that if he suspects she’s harboring malice, he’ll never have a leg of proof to stand on.6

“What time is it?” she asks. Taking a drag of her cigarette, watching him now through squinted eyes. He glances at his watch, looks up and says, “2:30”. With her flicked ashes dropping 6 inches from his nose, she replies, “Good. We can start finishing this week off”.7

Saying this, the ’86 rusted blue Camaro pulls into the yard. Paul opens the long passenger door and it sags on its hinge. He swings his head out, stands up and mumbles, “Hi ”.8

Kerry exhales a stream of smoke, drops her cigarette to the asphalt and crushes it under her boot. Paul holds the bucket seat belt up for her to pass through into the back. Tim motions with his head for Paul to follow her. Paul grins and shakes his head.9

Tim hangs his head, then lowers his shoulders and crawls in across from her. Something tells him he doesn’t want to ride next to her today. Janice shifts the console up into reverse, backs out, then drops the shift into drive.10

Kerry’s lunch is beside her on the seat. Tim places his on the seat too. But the reinforced barrier doesn’t feel sufficient. Janice turns onto the highway out to the factories and a warm breeze floats in through the lowered windows. The smell of cut grass, then lilacs, then cut grass filling the moving car.11

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“My mother should be picking a jar of wild garlic for me soon,“ states Kerry. “I like to eat them when my boyfriend’s arguing with me. My replies tend to leave him less steady on his feet.” Everyone chuckles. Not knowing why, he turns to look at her.13

For the first time, Tim sees the patch of tiny freckles spread over the bridge of her nose. As if the warm rays of the sun had just tossed them there. For one second nothing moves as she slowly turns her gaze back to him. It’s not carrying her playful smirk. It’s serious, direct and unafraid. Its interpretation though, no less shrouded in mystery. 14

Tim blinks and quickly looks away. As they speed over the road he notices the run of trilliums in under the passing trees. 15

“Why is the trillium Ontario’s provincial flower when it grows in equal abundance in Quebec?” he suddenly asks.16

No one answers. He knows it is a silly question and doesn’t care. He isn’t thinking about trilliums. 17