Front Porch Mannequins

By Rebekkah Adams

Nana Underhill's intoxicated plan to run Lily over with her car seemed like a good idea at the time. Having slept with Lily's husband Mark, she needed to ease her guilt with an act of kindness - -however bizarre. The accident would bring Lily's husband racing to the scene and back into Lily's affections. But when Mark fails to show up as planned, the staged accident backfires and Nana has to pull Lily from a pool of blood and take her to hospital herself. Then Daryl, the husband of their eccentric friend Alice -- who spends afternoons sitting on the front porch with her mannequin Delane - -finds a severed hand in the middle of a rural Ontario highway. He scrapes it off the road with a snow brush and puts it in a cereal box for safekeeping.

Who the severed hand belongs to is only the first challenge for small-town detective Harris Cool. Why the hand was severed in the first place sends him on a chilling journey into the complexities of one woman's tortured past. Only when Detective Cool confronts his own demons -- and when Lily's crazy mother Carol reveals hers -- do Nana and Lily come to the startling truth about their own fractious relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Signature Editions
• Release date: Oct 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781897109717

Rebekkah Adams

Rebekkah Adams is an Owen Sound, Ontario writer whose short fiction, poems, and journalism have appeared in such publications as Fireweed, Canadian Women's Studies Journal, and the Georgia Straight. A graduate of the Humber School for Writers program, she is the author of Glass Houses: Saving Feminist Anti-Violence Agencies from Self-Destruction (2008), a critique of governance and internal conflict in anti-violence agencies. A front-line worker and manager for over twenty years in shelters for women and children, she is currently a counselor in private practice. Front Porch Mannequins is her first novel.

Book preview

1

She points out to him that to leave town he can only travel in one direction.

South.

Surely this must have an impact, she says, but he isn’t certain what she means. It’s true that Augustine is bordered on three sides by water and that the only highway, number 8, travels due south, more than eighty kilometres down a long finger of land to the bottom of the Augustine Peninsula. About halfway is the town of Sprucedale and at the end is the small city of Cabot Sound, but there isn’t much in between. At the bottom, you’re free to go in any direction, but until then, it’s south. You can only go south.

This must have an effect on the way people are here. She says this to him with utter certainty.

He’s lived here all his life. He travels south down the peninsula once in a while for movies or shopping. When day is done, he travels north again, to bed. He never gave much thought to the possibility that this unalterable geography may have influenced his development. Until she came along, everything was fine. Now here she sits, wrapping her hair around her index finger and thoughtfully tearing apart the world he’s known.

He asks her what it is she dislikes about going south.

She answers, Nothing; there’s nothing wrong about that direction in particular, just that there is no alternative. You couldn’t decide that today feels like an easterly day — I think I will drive east and see what is there.

Like what?

A town, perhaps, or a park with trails to hike on.

He asks her what difference it would make if this town or these trails were east or south. They would still be a town and trails.

"Yes, but they would be east trails. And I would have a choice between east trails and south trails. Can you not understand that?"

He laughs at her then, with some degree of malice, and remarks, You city folk are too caught up with choice. That’s why cities have so many homosexuals. Toronto is four hours away and it can stay there.

What a hick, she thinks. Scared of homosexuals, the Chinese, three-lane highways, ethnic food, and the opera. Frightened that any one of these things may wind up on his doorstep in Augustine. Of course, his feelings could be directly attributed to the goddamn tourists, especially the ones from Michigan, because, after all, they’re American and all Americans can do is love themselves and piss on everyone else.

Don’t you think you’re a bigot? she asks him.

What’s a bigot?

She tells him.

He stares at her with contempt. His green eyes are hard. Ask me if I care, he says.

So she does.

The meaning of rhetorical being lost on him, he mumbles vulgarities instead. Then he says, You’re so open-minded, your brains are falling out.

Screw you, she replies.

Two years later they are married.

Often, their conversation sounded very much like this.

Then there were days when they were silent and held hands.

The days she never forgets are the ones when they just stared at each other and knew. But said nothing.

For Alice White, her love for Daryl Attridge was a desperate thing, a life raft to hang on to. Without it, she knew she would wind up a pitiful figure, like someone in one of the stories she wrote when she was feeling lonely. She needed Daryl’s unfaltering love, his physical presence, his absolute normalcy, though she questioned herself at times for loving the sheer boredom of him. With Daryl, things just were. Black and white. One, two, three.

When she was single, with enough pot to render her apathetic to the shortcomings of the men who wandered through her life, she could keep deep reflection at bay. Stoned, she wondered if everyone was as narcissistic as she was.

But when she drank, her world became black and white. Then she was truly dangerous: her black and white was not as innocent as his. Intoxication divided his world from hers. In hers, she would slip into making vicious judgments.

They learned quickly not to drink together — a dangerous practice for any small-town couple. Booze set them adrift. They spoke venomous words and just as quickly forgot them. After a few drinks, he would interpret her need to fit in as a kind of sexual loneliness, and since this caused so many disruptions, they refrained from going out socially at all. It was safer and cheaper. They continued to live misguidedly, year upon year, each dependent as a nursing child upon the constancy of the other.

If you ever cheat on me, I’ll chop your legs off, she would say to him, and they would smile at each other.

Yeah, yeah, he would answer and pat her thigh as if she would shatter. I wouldn’t advise it.

He is a gentle man, although he pretends hard not to be.

Lately friction between them has been kept to a minimum.

It is early spring, not the season for dissension, not after a long, harsh peninsula winter. They maintain conversation as a light hobby.

Anything wrong?

No.

Are you sure, sweetie?

Yes, yes, everything’s fine.

The first winter Alice ached to talk about books, their use of dialogue or characterization, for instance. She also ached to work again, forgetting how much she despised her old job, with its mundane drudgery of insurance claims and cubicles and elevator rides to the fourteenth floor and the thick coffee she had needed to clear her head. Then, she had yearned to escape, to realize her dream of writing full time, and she had honest-to-god thought this would happen living with Daryl, even as she was leaving the city and her friends snickered and bet her that after two months in Augustine she’d stick a gun in her mouth. She gave up reading anything serious that winter, since she worried that she might find a topic for discussion and grow frustrated because she couldn’t talk about it with him. Instead, she leafed through back issues of Good Housekeeping and Woman’s World, looking at the pictures of manicured gardens and low-fat cheesecake.

Very little happened.

The new toaster comes mail order from Sears. Alice lets Daryl have the honour of removing it from the box and plugging it in. Alice, of course, will send in the warranty, because Daryl will never get around to it. They hold a trial run, smiling, eyebrows raised hopefully as they stare into the one-slice slot; then — whoosh — the new toaster ejects a perfect piece of toast. Alice sees that Daryl is pleased. He will remark on the toaster for the next several days, and Alice knows that if he begins to slide into a grumpy mood, she can always ask for his opinion of the new toaster.

Are you happy with the toaster? Should we send it back? It does the bread up just nice, dontcha think?

And he will agree and thoughtfully shake his head, No, I think it’s fine.

His smile contains traces of something timid, and Alice makes it a point to reassure him when she is feeling fond of him. She lavishes him with duties that let him be physical — opening jars, mowing the lawn, or building her a shelf. Odd jobs let her marvel at his maleness and gaze lustfully at his bare chest and the moisture that collects on his skin as he works. When she is angry with him, she speaks to him as though he were a naughty child, knowing full well this will hurt him much more than withdrawing her physical love. She loves him to the point of ownership, thinking how satisfying it would be to capture him inside a jar with air holes poked in the top and stare in at him all day, maybe feed him grass, or pet him when she is feeling especially fond. Even when she taunts him, she fiercely adores him, knowing that even if he isn’t what she had been looking for, there’s no way she’s releasing him. In her soul, she knows, she’d kill anyone who tried to take him from her.

What do you want for breakfast, honey?

I don’t care. What do you want?

We got bacon. Do you want bacon?

Sure, bacon’s good.

Just bacon and eggs then?

What else did you want? And toast, of course.

Well, yeah, toast.

New toaster’s pretty good, eh?

She smiles. Mummhumm, she says, agreeing with him. Today will be a good day.

2

It is difficult for Lily Monroe to pinpoint exactly when she became invisible. She was only aware that one day she simply knew that she was. She won’t lie to herself and pretend she wasn’t frightened. She was. But she accepted her invisibility as she accepted everything else in her life — her invisibility was as certain as rotten fruit and collection agencies.

Her friend Nan implored her to carry on: things would change, she said; it was only a phase. It was the hope of all women — that things would somehow transform, that actions would eradicate themselves, and that silly wholeness would be reinstated. Nan, as much as any other woman Lily knew, wrapped and unwrapped herself from these same crazy notions every few weeks, and still, nothing changed for her either. Lily wondered when Nan would lose hope, as she figured most women would have done by now.

She will confess that she watched herself through months of becoming a part of the unseen and did little to stop it. Truthfully, she believed there wasn’t a thing she could do. When her anger had subsided, she sometimes lay beside Mark, if she knew he was deep in sleep. She moved close enough to feel the heat from his body, but she didn’t touch him. She simply studied him — the way he drew his breath, the curve of his nose, the hollowness of his pale cheeks, and the slim curve of his arm as it lay limply beside him. She saw in these body parts their years together. She saw images of their early happiness, Samantha as an infant, and the carefree way he looked in photographs, whether he knew the picture was being taken or not. She kidded herself for a while and made believe that he watched her as she slept, as she did him — watched the rise and fall of her breasts, studied her tangled hair falling across her forehead. So badly did she want this to be true that she would lie pretending to be asleep for several nights in a row until futility overtook her and she lulled herself to sleep, her muffled cries unheard.

Lily’s body had turned into a laundry hamper. She was no more than the sum of her functions. She moved through the house these days like a ghost.

Nan said, What if you were wounded? The afternoon she mentioned it, Lily drained her wine glass and replied, It almost sounds like a good idea.

Lily went inside, grabbed the wine bottle, and returned to the porch to refill their glasses. She knew if she were too lucid she would dismiss the thought entirely and dismally embrace routine once again. But Nan had planted the idea, however unformed, and she felt dangerous, almost more wicked than she could stand. A fire coursed through her.

Not life-threatening, but enough, Nan said. She took long slow sips, almost as if she had forgotten how. That’ll get his attention, that’s for sure. An affair isn’t possible due to there being no men around and all.

An affair would be more fun, Lily said and poured their wine. But what if it doesn’t work? What if Mark…what if he sees me hurt and doesn’t do anything? The thought was unbearable.

Then you’ll know how he feels once and for all, Nan responded, her voice a little slurred, looking straight at her. Lily was certain her own face was flushed and she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. The only question remaining now was: How would they do it? Overdose? Ladder accident? Gunshot?

Caught up in the drama, Nan licked her lips. Her eyes were fervent as she raised her glass in the air. I’ll hit you with my car! That’s it. That’s what we’ll do. You telephone me to come right over, upset over your husband’s emotional celibacy and lack of fulfillment in your marriage. You’ve been drinking. You might do something desperate. Yes! This is exactly the plan — I drive over here and just as I’m pulling in the driveway, speeding because I’m so concerned, you run out from behind the bushes at the end of your driveway, I don’t stop in time, and wham! Nan slapped the palms of her hands together. You’re toast! I run into you.

Jesus, Nan, it almost sounds like you’re enjoying this.

You’re not?

Lily was silent. To be honest, she hadn’t felt so excited in months. It all felt sickly romantic, although she was rudely aware that winning back her husband’s attention this way was twisted. But Nan’s notion was undeniably having an impact. She imagined him racing to her side. She felt him kissing her hard and grabbing her body. Oh, my darling, if I should lose you now whatever would I do? She wanted to begin rehearsing her response to him. He wouldn’t know if she was going to die. He would listen to her words, perhaps her final ones, more intently than he had ever listened before. What would she say?

Are you in? Nan asked, raising her glass again.

I’m in, Lily replied, although she surprised herself by saying it. Their glasses touched. We’ll finish the bottle first. Then you’ll hit me with your car.

After the accident, Nan revamped all her philosophies. She told Lily that she saw things differently since she ran over her. Within several months she got a job at the Golden Mornings Retirement Home, where she sorted pills of all colours into tiny plastic cups and made sure they found their way onto the proper dinner trays and into the mouths of the old folks. It would be a dreadfully boring job if not for their stories, sarcasm, and dementia, Nan would tell Lily. She seemed to have a special rapport with them that the rest of the staff lacked.

For Lily, it was hard not to resent Nan at times. Nothing much had changed for her. For Lily, though, all the romantic nuances she had imagined now seemed rather pathetic. She and Nan had waited at the accident scene for as long as they could, and when Mark still didn’t arrive, Nan had taken her over