to go out.
Beside him Susie closes her book and begins straightening the clutter on the table.
“Mark and I are going to have a rest upstairs,” she says. “Adam, would you mind watching Zoë?”
Outside, Rudy walks as far as the end of the driveway and leans back against the juniper tree stationed like a sentry at the corner of the lawn. The sky is low and grey; the air has that particular about-to-snow sharpness to it. He buries his hands in his pockets and inhales the cold. He doesn’t really plan to walk any farther.
Stretching out to his left and right, Morgan Hill Road—chemin de la Côte Morgan, officially—is perfectly straight and, despite the name, flat. The snow on its front yards is still untrampled after the latest fall. Its houses, from the bricks of their living room levels to the aluminum siding strips of their bedroom levels, are ordered and straight. Most of them have their Christmas lights on, and these strings of lights, too, conform to the right-angle geometry of the street.
Rudy looks back at his father’s sagging lights, the exception on the block. Complementing the red shutters and door, the bulbs are green and red, but the wires hang in loose arcs along the eaves and under the windows. “Like the lights at the Kandy Perahera,” Adam apparently said when he put them up. Dad said they looked sloppy and apologized for them when Rudy and the others came home. “Kandy Perahera!” he huffed, shaking his head. “The boy has never even seen a perahera. The neighbours must think we’re completely ignorant.”
Rudy turns back to the street. “You should have been born in the old country, machan,” he muses to his absent brother.
Rudy himself is tired of being Sri Lankan. Or, rather, of being only Sri Lankan—especially to women. His relationships follow a pattern as regular as the lines and angles of Morgan Hill Road. Currently it’s Renée, who took the initiative and asked him out. At first, she found him exotic (that word he has grown to despise) and therefore incapable of being boring. And he, in the interest of boosting his desirability, became in her presence someone not quite himself, peppering his descriptions of “home” with tropical flavours and smells, using Sinhala words whose meanings had escaped him, admiring the contrast in their skin tones when they made love. It worked, for a while. Then Renée asked about his name, and on discovering he was neither Sinhalese nor Tamil, but a hybrid with European ancestors, began to find entirely ordinary faults in him. Soon, he’s sure, they’ll break up, and once again he’ll vow not to take part in this embarrassing routine.
As if to assert his Canadianness, he crouches and scoops up some snow with his bare hands. It doesn’t pack very well, but he manages to form a lumpy little ball, which he fires across the street at the Frasers’ Oldsmobile. He crouches to scoop up more snow, but as he does so the Frasers’ front door opens and Mrs. Fraser and her daughter come out. For an instant, Rudy worries they’re going to bawl him out for hucking snowballs at their car, the way Mr. Fraser once did. But Mrs. Fraser and her daughter seem oblivious to his presence. Mr. Fraser himself—odd, sullen guy—is no longer around to care. Apparently his heart gave out on him in the summer.
Rudy straightens up slowly and leans back into the juniper, grateful that his jacket isn’t far off the green of the bush. To step out into the street would probably call for a greeting—something he’d rather not bother with—so he stays where he is, waiting for the two women to get into the car and drive off. Curiously, though, they stay where they are, hovering by the front door, as if trying to decide where to go or what to do. Mrs. Fraser, in a fur-trimmed coat, is cradling something in one arm, gesturing toward the middle of the lawn with the other. Her daughter, Clare, looks frozen in a turtleneck and jeans. Her arms are folded across her middle and her head is bowed, long hair hiding her face.
Rudy hasn’t seen Clare Fraser in years. In his time away from Morgan Hill Road, he’s forgotten her, and only now, watching her like this, does he recall with an unexpected wave of nostalgia that she used to be a fixture in his life. He never spoke to her; they weren’t friends. But she was regularly there, the girl across the street, about his age, a presence he could count on.
His mind begins to drift, until Clare and her mother walk out to the driveway. Rudy presses his body farther into the juniper. The Christmassy smell fills his nostrils. “Come on, you two,” he mutters. “I feel like an idiot here. Get in the car.” Cupping his hands around his mouth and nose, he prepares to slip around the bush and back to the house. But then the scene across the street changes.
The two women march through the fresh snow to the pine tree in the middle of the lawn. Mrs. Fraser circles the tree, examining its branches, while Clare stares at the ground. Rudy squints at the thing cradled in Mrs. Fraser’s arm, craning his neck to get a better view. It’s a container of some kind, he guesses. Then, teetering into the shrub, he gets it: an urn.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
He steadies himself then squats down, making his body as small as possible.
Mrs. Fraser says something. Clare’s head is still down, her arms folded. If she answers, Rudy doesn’t hear it. He imagines her heavy-hearted but restrained. He knows the feeling. She wants the whole thing to be over with, he imagines—and, for her sake, so does he. But Mrs. Fraser, fondling a branch of the pine tree with her free hand, seems to be in no hurry. Rudy shifts his weight. His knees are complaining, but to get up now is out of the question. Waiting, he notices that the Fraser house is the only one on the block without Christmas lights. Though reasonably well tended, the place wears a vacant stare of abandonment, as if, despite Mr. Fraser’s grumpy manner, the house can’t manage to look homey without him. Rudy knows little about the circumstances of his neighbour’s death. Living in Toronto, he received only a sketchy account. But it occurs to him that even if he’d been living here on Morgan Hill Road, he’d not have known much more. For though the Frasers have lived across the street for as long as he can remember, the distance between their house and his own has proven itself, for no straightforward reason, to be unbridgeable.
Holding the brass urn in both hands now, Mrs. Fraser offers one side of it to her daughter, but Clare shakes her head. Her mother turns to face the pine tree then takes a step back. Rudy’s eyes are fixed on the urn. He’s never seen ashes before; he’s heard there’s more to them than one might expect. And indeed, when Mr. Fraser’s remains spill out into the branches of the pine, onto the snow, upward in great, whitish gusts, their quantity is surprising.
That’s what we amount to, Rudy tells himself, though he doesn’t quite believe it.
Mrs. Fraser wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and together they stand, facing the tree. It would be fitting, Rudy thinks, for the snow to start now. He searches the sky and in the absence of any climactic flakes tries to honour the Frasers’ small, quiet ceremony with a memory of his mother’s burial. It’s an event that should have stuck, but all that comes to him of that muggy August afternoon is the car ride from the cemetery to the house: he and Susie in the back seat with a large 7-Up to share, baby Adam screeching on Aunty Mary’s lap.
His knees are killing him. Seeing Clare retreat, head down, toward her house, he straightens up painfully, extracts himself from the juniper, and tramps back across his own yard. He’s halfway to the steps when the front door opens a crack.
“Rudy! Lunch in ten minutes!” his aunt calls, loud enough to be heard several houses away.
Rudy groans into his collar. He could carry on to the house without looking back—he’s almost there—but he stops and turns.
Mrs. Fraser is looking in his direction, clutching the empty urn. He expects her to ignore him, or dismiss him with a friendly wave. But instead she starts walking toward the road,
