Smells Like Heaven

By Sally Cooper

Set in the fictional town of Fletcher, the connected stories in Smells Like Heaven span thirty years. Fletcher is a town the characters strive to escape, but keep returning to, as they stumble through life searching for ways to connect and transcend their claustrophobic pasts. Following two sisters—Devon and Christine—as well as their friends and lovers, Smells Like Heaven exposes the core of what it means to be transformed by love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arbeiter Ring Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781894037433

Sally Cooper

Sally Cooper has been published in numerous magazines, newspapers, and literary journals. Her first novel, Love Object (2002), received praise from critics and earned a devoted follower of readers. Cooper teaches Creative Writing at Humber College in Toronto, and lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

Book preview

SMELLS LIKE HEAVEN

Smells Like Heaven

stories

SALLY COOPER

ARP Books • Winnipeg

Copyright © 2017 Sally Cooper

ARP Books (Arbeiter Ring Publishing)

Treaty 1 Territory and Historic Métis Nation Homeland

205-70 Arthur Street

Winnipeg, Manitoba

Canada R3B 1G7

arpbooks.org

Cover image copyright © Melanie Rocan

Book design and layout by Relish New Brand Experience, Winnipeg.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

This book is fully protected under the copyright laws of Canada and all other countries of the Copyright Union and is subject to royalty.

ARP Books acknowledges the generous support of the Manitoba Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program of Manitoba Culture, Heritage, and Tourism.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Cooper, Sally (Sally Elizabeth), author

Smells like heaven / Sally Cooper.

Short stories.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-894037-91-4 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-894037-43-3 (EPUB)

I. Title.

PS8555.O59228S54 2017

C813’.6

C2017-900959-1

C2017-900960-5

To Raven and Isis, forever and ever and always

Special

The rest of you could learn from Devon.

Mr. Trask waves Devon’s report on the Royal Ontario Museum’s Arctic Exhibit like a football pennant. Devon holds her breath against his smell of lizards and Old Spice. Mr. Trask pats Devon’s desk. Brilliant insights on the plight of the narwhal, he says. Then he appoints Devon to babysit Checkers, the class snake, this weekend because he’s flying to Detroit to see Elvis Presley.

With his lover, Wendy Booth says at recess.

She means Guy, who lives with Mr. Trask in his house and who helped him bring in their pet Komodo dragon one time.

Mr. Trask says to ask her parents, but Devon doesn’t bother. Her mom wears a ring with a snake’s head poking through a looped tail.

Friday afternoon, the bus driver lets Devon have the front seat to herself. Her knee and hip bones sore from growing, Devon wedges into the corner and straightens her legs. In her Adidas bag, she’s stashed Checkers’s heating pad, light, and water dish. An opaque plastic case, its blue lid poked with holes, carries Checkers himself.

Wendy turfs two grade ones out of the seat behind Devon.

I’m your backup, Wendy says. Then she calls Devon gay because agreeing to take Checkers means Devon likes Mr. Trask, which means Gay By Association, though it’s not as if Devon had a choice.

Devon’s test scores were the highest in the school, among the highest in the province. Mr. Trask encourages her, acts like her friend. But she has friends. For instance, she plays with Wendy when Wendy can’t find anyone else, smiley Wendy who has good ideas and doesn’t mind Devon’s smartness or at least doesn’t usually say mean things about it.

I hate Mr. Trask, Devon says, knowing Wendy will approve.

Wendy’s family lives right in Fletcher, so she’s supposed to get off at the General Store bus stop with everyone else. Instead she stays on and gets off with Devon, Devon’s little sister Christine, and Will Nestor at their stop north of Fletcher across from the one-room schoolhouse. Their parents went there and most of the teenagers in town, too, until it closed ten years ago. It stood empty until a benefactor converted it into a private school for children with special needs. Apple orchards and a field with a pony in it border the hilly yard behind the schoolhouse building. Little stakes joined by string map the field to the south, which has a gravel road through it for the subdivision that will go there when people buy up all the planned houses. It will be Fletcher’s third subdivision. The fields behind Devon’s house are the only ones left connected to the village. A blue station wagon sits close to the school door, which has GIRLS carved in stone above it.

Wendy stares at Will, hips cocked, arms crossed, until he says, What? then tramps off towards his house.

You, too, Wendy says to Christine, who doesn’t budge. When Devon says, Shoo fly, Christine runs across the road and down their driveway, her legs in their red leotards and black rubber boots pumping hard.

Let’s give those special kids a treat, Wendy says after Will and Christine are out of sight. Let them play Hide and Snake. Get it? She swings open the gate and runs across the parking lot, the tops of her fingers pushed into her jean jacket pockets.

Somebody’s here.

Devon walks over to Wendy, the snake’s box wobbling as she strains to hold it level.

Wendy is cupping her eyes against the pebbled glass window.

It’s the cleaner. Devon feels grateful that Wendy hasn’t used her parents’ word for slow kids, a word that makes her hot and clenched. Her cuffs over her fingers, she peers through the window, too. Checkers’s box pokes her belly.

I have to set up Checkers’s home, Devon says.

You don’t get to keep him.

I do for the weekend.

Devon switches Checkers’s case from hand to hand as she slings her bag onto one shoulder and the snake’s onto the other.

These kids deserve fun as much as you, Devon. Let’s just show them the snake!

Wendy walks beside her, touching Checkers’s box often, her fingers scrabbling at the lid whenever Devon pauses to adjust the bags.

Why do you love Checkers so much now? Devon asks. You don’t take care of him in class.

I’d be better at it.

You mean why didn’t Mr. Trask pick you?

Cuz I’m not gay.

"I can do it."

Mr. Trask feels sorry for you. He thinks you’re special because you’re smart, and you have a guy’s name, and you have no friends.

What about you? Devon asks. You’re my friend.

We’re bus friends.

And village friends.

"Who says village? Wendy snorts. You don’t even live in Fletcher. I’m only hanging out with you because you have the snake. You help at the library. What do you expect?"

Devon leans over to set Checkers down. Wendy reaches straightaway for the case, and Devon elbows her to keep her own hand there. Wendy shoves back.

You’ve got two dogs, Wendy says. I don’t have any. I deserve it.

My mom’s worse than ten dogs. Speaking about her mom this way fills Devon with a mean power, but when Wendy bites her lip and nods, Devon’s mouth puckers with guilt. Her mom wouldn’t be the way she is if Devon had done what she’d asked.

Maybe Mr. Trask knows about your mom’s snake thing and will use it to seduce her so he can get to your dad.

Devon smiles with relief at Wendy’s change in tactic.

"Eff off. You don’t even know what seducing means."

And then Guy will get jealous, and they’ll fight.

"Right off."

"Fight! What if he marries your dad? You’ll be Devon Trask. Or he’ll be Mr. Phipps!"

Devon sets Checkers down to shove Wendy, but Wendy dashes across the road and runs bent over toward town, laughing a silvery, sickening howl. Devon swings her leg back to kick the case but remembers sweet Checkers, who doesn’t know the difference between Mr. Trask or Gloria or even her. She picks up the case, planning the flowers and trees she will colour with magic marker and cut out and glue to Checkers’s home as she walks up the road and down her driveway.

Gloria is sitting on the couch in a tan bra and black underpants, a plate of toast perched on her knee, her old Cosmopolitan with the Burt Reynolds centrefold open on her lap. Her jeans and top drape the recliner, Ron’s chair, the one he won’t share. She holds a mini battery-operated fan above her like a shower head, even though it’s April and Devon’s wearing a turtleneck under her polo shirt. The fan emits a cute whir that masks Gloria’s croaky breathing. Gloria’s job as an exercise rider at the racetrack means she’s home in the afternoon. Devon plunks down Checkers and his bags. Gloria’s feet smell like corn chips. The rose-scented deodorizer she sprays makes the odour worse. Devon drops onto the recliner.

That is a beautiful man, Gloria says in her gurgling voice, which sounds like two people talking. Her voice cracks on the word beautiful, and she gulps. She points a toast triangle at the magazine. The fan’s wind blows her hair back like garbage bag streamers.

Mom! Devon is used to the little scars that crisscross Gloria’s throat. It’s the long pink one like a hem between Gloria’s breasts that cramps Devon’s leg muscles with guilt.

Devon looks away, but then there is Burt Reynolds lying naked on a bearskin rug, one hand over his hairy crotch. Devon pictures herself on that rug. Wendy claims magazines hire people to fluff a centrefold’s pubes between shots. "What if you worked for Playgirl, Wendy likes to ask, and Pube Fluffer was your job?"

I could’ve had Wendy with me. Devon eyes Burt’s calves, her own legs exhausted.

So? Wendy’s developing. She wouldn’t see anything she hasn’t got herself. Pretend it’s my bathing suit. You’re lucky I’m not naked! I would be if we had a velvet couch.

Can’t you act like you’re at the track? You have to wear clothes there.

Maybe I should get a different job.

Gloria’s voice breaks again, and she stares at the magazine. Devon might like Burt Reynolds if Gloria didn’t. Wendy does. If Devon liked any movie star, she would choose a clean, organized one, who wore black suits with white shirts and moved with precision and class. A star like Humphrey Bogart who wasn’t showy or obvious.

Devon tosses Gloria the jeans.

Did you miss me? Gloria scans Devon top to bottom, her eyes loving and hungry and sad. It’s funny, because you’re such a big girl now, but I missed you.

Devon misses an image of her mom’s long black braid soaring like a kite tail as she leans into her horse’s canter. But: big girl? Devon’s foot spasms, and she wants to stamp it. Instead she hoists Checkers and his equipment and stomps down the hall to the bathroom. The door shut, she flips the broken lock a few times. She opens Checkers’s case and eases a hand under the snake’s body a third of the way down from his head. Don’t forget it’s a wild animal, Mr. Trask says. Devon guides Checkers’s head onto the porcelain, and the snake slides out. Sluggish Checkers has eaten his weekly pinkie, a previously frozen infant mouse, this afternoon, so caring for him involves nothing more than setting up a terrarium Devon once used to raise tadpoles and filling up his water dish.

The floor groans, and Devon flips the cupboard open to block the door.

Your teacher called.

Gloria opens the door, and the cupboard slaps shut. She’s put on denim shorts and a red t-shirt with a high collar piped in white. Wet dots darken the front of her shirt below her breasts and under her armpits, and a spread of little white bumps covers her cheeks. My mom has acne, thinks Devon. Gross.

Since you like snakes so much, I thought I didn’t have to ask. Devon pats Checkers, strokes circles on his skin. Gloria squats beside her, but Devon won’t give her the space, so Gloria drops the toilet lid and sits there, wearing runners now, thank god.

Can I hold him? Look how precious! She moves her fingers as if she’s playing a recorder and stares at Checkers like she would a baby. Or Devon.

Feeling protective, Devon hands Checkers up.

Gloria crows, throws her head back, her black hair sticking to her neck. She encourages Checkers along her arm, around her shoulder.

So cool to touch! Here’s the solution to my early menopause right here, wear a snake at all times.

Checkers drapes himself over her shoulders in a way he hasn’t with anyone in Devon’s class, not even Mr. Trask.

Rr-rr-rr-rr-rr-rr-rr. Gloria is purring.

He just ate. Let him rest.

Though curious about snake vomit, especially if it landed on Gloria, Devon does not want to witness her mother stripping in the wake of such an event. She reaches for Checkers.

He’s used to swinging from trees in the jungle, aren’t you Checky? She lifts the snake so his face hangs in hers. She shakes her cheeks, and her lips make rubbery, spitting sounds.

He’s a corn snake.

Devon stands, places her hands between Gloria’s and tugs the snake. Gloria doesn’t let go.

Mom!

Gloria cups then flattens her palms, sneaking in a few strokes of Devon’s wrists as she hands her the snake. Devon recoils, the snake a fast-moving bundle she can’t control, and drops Checkers with a thud back into the tub. The snake whips itself into the corner.

I can take care of him! Devon holds her shoulders high in case Gloria chooses now to point out that no she can’t, how could she, when her not taking care of her sister was what caused their mother to turn around that day.

She jostles Gloria. Though Gloria has muscles from the track, Devon is taller and can stand her ground. Now Gloria’s got her arms in the tub with Devon’s.

I can help, honey.

No! His tongue flickered so he’s okay!

Devon forces herself to guide Gloria’s arms from the tub with the gentleness she’d used the first time she held Checkers in class. Eyes on Devon, Gloria stays still, not afraid nor angry but calm, as if she’s waiting for Devon to tell her what to do and as if she might do it. Devon pictures Mr. Trask dancing with Guy while Elvis sings, Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love. What made Mr. Trask think Devon could take care of Checkers? No one else in the class has taken the snake for the weekend. Screw him for singling me out, she thinks.

It happened three years ago. Devon was dragging Christine by the hands. Christine was laughing. She loved everything her sister did. But then she wasn’t. She didn’t. She was crying. She didn’t like the Winnie the Pooh blanket scrunched up under her. Devon tugged her onto the grass, long for early May, but it’d been hot since March. All the grown ups said the heat suited them fine, except Devon’s dad, who was saving for a snowmobile and walked around with a new wrinkle across his forehead refusing to take off his toque. So there was Devon hauling Christine along the grass to shake off the blanket while their mom was out exercising Fiddlesticks. Devon called it riding because her mom cantered the horse all over the field, not in the training ring. But the owners were away, and Devon’s mom did what she wanted when nobody was looking. Then Christine started really crying. Her shirt had popped a snap, and red ants had crawled inside and bitten her tummy. Devon picked her up and dandled her, but Christine kept yelling loud enough their mom could hear her in the next county, where she’d be if she’d taken Fiddlesticks for a real ride if she didn’t have the girls. Devon was turning Christine’s head into her own hair to muffle the screams. Devon was putting her hand near Christine’s mouth as if to cover it. Then Fiddlesticks galloped along the edge of the field, tawny mane flying, their mom leaning forward, her black braid flipping up behind her like a kite’s tail, and Devon put her fingers on Christine’s lips. When Christine bit her, Devon screamed and dropped Christine, who fell awkwardly, bumping against Devon’s knee, grabbing Devon’s shirt, and landing on the blanket. She cranked up the yelling again, more out of fear of the ants than of any fall-induced pain, as Devon was only eight then and weighed 56 pounds. Christine’s hollers rose up and muddled with the sounds of a tractor tilling a cornfield