Little Joe

By Stephanie Kast

At the age of seven, Joe was a part of a cruise ship disaster that resulted in the death of his parents and the separation from him and his three older siblings. After fourteen years of a different life, Joe opens his mail to see an invitation to his sister's wedding. Before he knows it, Joe begins to struggle finding a balance between his old a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renaissance
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990086588

Stephanie Kast

Stephanie Kast is originally from a tiny town of Dorchester, Ontario but moved to North Bay, Ontario to continue and grow her work in the arts. As a theatre artist her love of storytelling and characters has been a part of her since she was old enough to sit up and spin tales. She works as an actor in a professional touring company called The Proscenium Club, writes and directs her own work, and works as a textile artist on the side. This is her first published novel and hopes you enjoy reading it, as she enjoyed writing it.

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Little

Joe

By Stephanie Kast

Renaissance logo

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any events, institutions, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.

LITTLE JOE ©2023 by Stephanie Kast. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact Renaissance Press.

First edition, 2023

Cover design by Nathan Frechette and Francisca Subiare. Interior design by Francisca Subiabre. Edited by Allyson Throp, Joel Balkovec, Marjolaine Lafrenière, and Molly Desson.

Legal deposit, Library and Archives Canada, October 2023.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-990086-47-2

Ebook ISBN : 978-1-990086-58-8

Renaissance Press - pressesrenaissancepress.ca

Renaissance acknowledges that it is hosted on the traditional, unceded land of the Anishinabek, the Kanienʼkehá꞉ka, and the Omàmìwininìwag. We acknowledge the privileges and comforts that colonialism has granted us and vow to use this privilege to disrupt colonialism by lifting up the voices of marginalized humans who continue to suffer its ongoing effects.

Printed in Gatineau by Gauvin.

Renaissance acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.

Canada Council for the Arts

Content warning

anxiety, mental health, suicide and death

Dedicated to Nana and Papa

Joe

A home is more than just a house. This is especially true for the Smast family that originally lived at 390 Blueberry Trail Road. There sat a small wooden house. Green moss wrapped around the structure, creating the illusion that the house was from a storybook. The door, painted forest green to accent the foliage around the house, was centre, with two large windows parallel on each side, which always looked frosted. The gardens were well maintained with lush bushes and rich succulents. And a plastic owl was tied to the chimney to keep the birds away. Even with all the storybook qualities of the house on 390 Blueberry Trail Road, the first thing you noticed was the tree.

A large oak stood tall on the front lawn of that small wooden house. The tree was giant, and to Joe, a three-foot-tall seven-year-old, he swore it touched the sky. On the warmest days in the summer, it covered the whole property with shade, inevitably bringing the mosquitoes and blackflies to feast. On cold winter days, the branches, still strong, were coated in a thin, clear layer of ice, which sparkled from the rays of sun. Joe had always been passionate about the tree. He’d sit and read his books against its trunk. He’d swing on the tire that was strung up by thick yellow rope, and when Christmas came, he’d insist it be decorated with a million coloured lights.

This oak tree had been purposely buried in the back of his mind so he could never touch it again, but, even 13 years later, in a house on the other side of town from Blueberry Trail Road, when Joe woke to his alarm, the oak’s branches spread and wound around his mind like the work of a spider. He hadn’t thought of his childhood home in years. He now lived on Patricks Avenue, in a quaint three-storey house with a large front yard and a fenced in backyard. The house was red brick with large windows and not a single tree on his property, unalike from his old house.

Christ.

He pushed the ripped blue duvet off and stumbled to the bathroom. Standing on the cold tile in front of the sink, he rummaged around in the counter drawer, pulling out his toothbrush.

He had the same routine every morning. He’d gotten so good at it that, sometimes, it was as if he were doing it in his sleep. Routine was good. He stared back at himself, unfocused in the mirror, stringing a line of toothpaste onto his brush.

If he showered quickly, he could make it to his favourite bakery on the corner for a Danish and coffee before work. He loved that bakery, and once a week, he would leave for work an hour early to sit in the little shop. That would give him the spirit to continue with his day. He brushed his teeth thoroughly, dreaming about the cherry Danish waiting for him.

It was a Tuesday.

He paused.

Shit.

He spat the remainder of the suds in the sink and rushed into his kitchen.

Shit, shit.

Joe ran the water into his coffee maker, pushing grounds down to the bottom and fell short of throwing it on the burner; he cranked it to high and rummaged through the cupboards.

Flour. Sugar. Chocolate Chips. Peanut butter. Eggs. Oil.

Out of the few ingredients he had displayed on the counter, the only thing he had time to make was peanut butter cookies. Flour hit his face in a cloud, and peanut butter smeared the right cuff of his formerly clean shirt, but soon he was setting the oven timer for ten minutes and sprinting back to the bathroom.

Joe never forgot a date. It wasn’t in his character. He was organized and thorough; he worked with intense detail and logic. He’d been punctual, realistic, and practical his whole life. Forgetting a date wasn’t responsible. Even as a child, he’d held himself to a higher standard than that. For example, he’d had three different pencil cases: a blue one for pencils and pens, a red one for pencil crayons, and lastly, a yellow one for markers. He never forgot to put the lids on, and he sharpened his pencils more than once a day. Going through high school, he was quite frequently asked by girlfriends whether he had OCD. He’d shake his head and laugh. He thrived on organization and routine.

Turning the shower to the red line and letting the water run, he checked the time on his clock. The cookies would be done at quarter to seven, which meant he could be on the road by eight.

It was the fastest shower Joe had ever taken. He was still cleaning soap out of his ears when he got to the kitchen to put the cookies in a tin.

7:56. He was going to make it.

He stuffed the tin in his backpack, drank the last gulp of coffee, and tightened his tie. No Danish today. Gripping his handlebars, he hopped on his bike, riding straight to 347 Olive Avenue.

It was a miserable day. The sky was grey, and there was a vicious bite to the breeze. The cars on the street seemed to be procrastinating getting to work. Even the lights at the crosswalks appeared to only change because they were supposed to.

Turning on Olive Avenue, he flew up the drive to Harbour Crest Retirement Home.

Harbour Crest Retirement, located at 347 Olive Avenue in Dorchester Harbour, was rated number one by seniors for the best Retirement Home in Northern Ontario. The staff were always friendly; the activities were inclusive, and if you had enough money, they were always happy to accept new people.

He locked his bike to the rack and rushed up the steps. Stopping at the entrance door and seeing his reflection, he adjusted his tie and flattened his dark brown hair with his hand.

Every other Tuesday, Joe would go and see his mother before work, and every other Tuesday, he would bring her cookies. He enjoyed her company. She had always been a lot of fun to be around.

Years prior, they spent every holiday together, every weekend together, and even some evenings. They were inseparable. They’d take walks through the park and play Scrabble until their eyes went foggy. However, in last few years, things had begun to change. Her mind was going, which was difficult for her to handle. She’d become irritable and impatient trying to remember things. Sometimes she’d be cruel and callous, picking on any thread she could find. This was when Joe decided that every other Tuesday was best for both of them.

He walked straight to the front desk, smiling at the cheerful woman sitting behind a computer. She blushed to see him.

She had jet-black hair that stopped above her shoulders. And below blunt bangs, creamy brown eyes set off her pale, almost iridescent skin. She didn’t appear to leave her house without applying a shade of purple lipstick. Today, she had on a thick pair of green framed glasses, which complimented her lavender cardigan. He always admired the way she looked, and quiet frequently told her so. She was clever and unique, and she smelled like watermelon.

Good morning, Mr. Carr.

Good morning, Ms. Glenn.

When will you start calling me Tori?

When you start calling me Joe. He winked at her and signed his name on the visitor log. Have you seen her today?

No, I haven’t. She doesn’t come down to the lobby as much anymore. Her bright smiled turned into a concerned one. She had a fit the other day. Tori paused. I’m not allowed to tell you that . . .

Joe leaned closer to the desk so the staff who walked by couldn’t hear their conversation.

For about five minutes, she forgot where she was. Yelling and screaming, telling the nurses she needed to go home to her farm and children.

Joe nodded. She hadn’t lived at that farm for twelve years.

Why didn’t anyone call me?

Your brother and sister are the emergency contact numbers. I was told it’s against policy to call anyone else.

Joe slumped on the counter, letting his head fall.

They’re adamant that you don’t get involved in these things. My boss said, ‘It’s not our business to get involved with the family politics. We have to stick to our job,’ Tori recited. I had to tell you."

Thank you.

She touched his hand in reassurance. I believe you have the right to know.

Joe smiled lightly at Tori. He took his backpack off and removed the tin of cookies. Want one?

No thanks. It’s too early for treats.

It’s never too early for cookies. Thanks a lot, Ms. Glenn. He winked again.

Any time, Mr. Carr.

Joe headed down the hall to the elevator, pressing the arrow to go up, and waiting until it hit his floor.

Number 9.

He held the peanut butter cookie tin with white knuckles as the elevator took off. He was angry. He was insulted. He was getting tired of this nonsense. He took a deep breath—he had to have complete focus on his mother for today to go well.

Ding.

Joe stepped out and headed down the hall. He looked at the time. Eight thirty. He had never forgotten his Tuesday with his mother before. If it weren’t for that damn oak tree, he’d have been more prepared for this visit.

Room 16. He knocked lightly in case she was sleeping, but he heard her wheelchair roll to the door, and it opened.

Joseph. She smiled. Come on in. You’re late.

I know. I’m really sorry. Traffic was bad, he quickly lied.

She wheeled herself to the living room. Audrey Carr had always been a tall and large woman. It was upsetting to see her look so small in that chair. She had short grey hair and glasses she kept perched on the top of her nose.

All the windows in the apartment were open. The wind blew aggressively, shaking the blinds and pictures on the wall.

Aren’t you cold? Joe helped her into her armchair that sat adjacent to her little television.

No, I like the fall. It’s my favourite time of the year.

Joe knew why. Her husband had died on Halloween night when Joe was in his second year of high school. Subsequently, every fall she would sit with the windows wide open. She said she could always feel his spirit the strongest when the leaves fell off the trees.

Audrey loved her husband very much, so it was odd that when he left her, she didn’t resent him. Joe was never told why they split up, but she didn’t seem to harbour any negative feelings about it, so he’d never asked. Joe never got to know the man.

How are you doing?

I’m bored, she sang. Lorene down the hall passed away last week. She was the last of my poker buddies.

At least now we’ll get our inheritance money. Joe smiled.

Wouldn’t you like that? she snorted. I think we did pretty well. Years and years of us gambling our money away, and the nurses never caught us once.

Joe laughed at his mother. She had her teeth clenched in the way she always did when she was boasting about being naughty, like when she’d stolen apples from her neighbour’s yard, or when she’d take more than one biscuit at church.

She was an impulsive and spirited woman. After the disaster, she was the one who’d reached out about getting custody of Joe. She’d gone above and beyond to make sure Joe felt comfortable in his new home. He was hesitant at the beginning. He was only seven, and her family was almost grown, her other children in their late teens, and she was in her early sixties, but it didn’t take long for him to realise she was a great mom. Through thick and thin, she was always there, and Joe was able to love her.

Now that you aren’t gambling, what have you been doing?

What cookies did you bring me?

She reached for the tin, ignoring Joe’s question. She took a bite of one of the cookies and tossed it to the side.

I thought peanut butter was your favourite? Joe knew full well it wasn’t.

I might have to write you out of the will after this batch. She laughed in a way Joe hadn’t heard in a long time. It was a real laugh, an honest laugh.

If bad baking was what kept her smiling, he’d burn every batch.

A strong breeze shook her apartment. The sky was getting darker, and the air was cooler than before. Rain fell, hitting the building sharply. His throat got tight, and his stomach clenched. Thunder and lightning released, and Joe’s mind started to reel.

Joe!

Joe looked up at his door. Sally flew through the doorway, a flashlight flailing wildly. She raced around the room, pulling out his pants, sweater, and rubber boots. Sally lobbed the flashlight on his side table, which knocked the lamp on the ground. Joe looked over the edge of the bed to see whether the light had broken, but it sank into a foot of water.

Joseph, get up! Sally screamed. We . . . we need . . . The boat is sinking, Joe. The storm . . . it’s . . . Do you not hear the alarm? Sally stuttered her explanation.

Joe had been lying in his bed for twenty minutes, listening to the alarm squeal, but his parents hadn’t come in, so he was waiting for it to stop.

Get up!

While Sally ripped open every cupboard in Joe’s room, his heart skipped a beat.

Sally, Joe wailed, looking back down at the water.

You need to do as I say, Sally said, still searching the cupboards.

What the hell’s taking so long?

The door flew open again, and Scotty stood holding another flashlight looking at Sally. His eyes then drifted to Joe, where his anger instantly set in.

Put these on.

Scotty jabbed his finger aggressively at the clothes Sally had laid out for him. He was frustrated at Joe’s hesitant pace.

I can’t find the life jackets, Sally said.

Scotty joined Sally in searching for the lifejackets. Joe tried to get dressed and watch his siblings at the same time, but his lack of coordination caused him to fall over in the water.

At the sound of the splash, Sally turned her head. Hurry. Put your clothes on, and we’ll get you on the lifeboat.

Joe, sweetheart. His attention was drawn back to his mother. I haven’t seen that look of yours in years.

Sorry. I zoned out for a second. Joe tried to smile. Those memories hadn’t come up in a long time.

It looks like it was a quick rain.

The storm had settled now, and the sky was breaking up.

It’s getting cold, Mom. I think winter’s around the corner. Joe shivered from the wind.

Until I see a snowflake, it’s still fall to me. She closed her eyes, embracing the sharp breeze.

I should get going. I don’t want to bike in the rain.

When are you going to learn to drive? She opened her eyes to peer over her glasses.

Next summer, Joe tossed out another lie. He put his backpack on, kissed his mother on the head, and took the stairs to the exit.

He was fiddling with his bike lock when he heard footsteps coming toward him.

What are you doing here? a bellowing voice asked.

Visiting, he murmured. It was his brother and sister. Kim carried a bouquet of flowers, and Clark carried his usual scowl.

How was she? Kim asked softly.

Well, Joe muttered, not taking his eyes off the bike.

That’s it? Clark pompously asked. That’s all you’re going to say to us?

Joe stopped fidgeting with his bike and faced them. Now thirty-one and thirty-three, they still hadn’t lost the bitterness and resentment they carried from when Joe entered their family.

Clark’s manner of speaking verged on interrogation. You didn’t tell us you were coming this morning.

He was a tall man with light eyes and pale skin. His whole childhood, he’d been involved in sports—lacrosse, soccer, hockey—but when he went to college, he stopped altogether to focus on his studies and lost his muscle mass.

Now his frame was narrow, and his hair was already turning grey. He put the weight of his responsibilities from his life on his shoulders, however serious or mundane they were. He was never fun.

Joe often wondered if Clark ever found anything humorous. He was always serious and always unchangeable which meant Joe's softness frustrated him a great deal. Clark was a business teacher at the local college. He’d opened a computer company years prior and had then sold it to teach. He was married to a lovely woman named Joanne and had two daughters, Sophie and Paula, whom Joe hadn’t seen in a few years.

Joe liked Kim more than he liked Clark. She resembled Clark in appearance. Tall and lean with light features, but her hair was constantly dyed fire engine red, compensating for her boring and paper-thin personality. She was always a bit softer when she spoke to Joe but was conniving behind his back. She and her husband Ned owned a construction company where Joe had worked for a summer when he was in high school, but Kim had tried her damnedest to make sure that didn’t last. Ned and Kim had three children: Adrianna, ten; Abby, eight; and Andrew, seven—who to Kim’s dismay, loved their Uncle Joe.

You’re still coming early Tuesday mornings, then? I thought maybe you gave up on our mother dearest, Clark taunted.

Why didn’t you tell me she freaked out? Joe blurted.

We didn’t want to worry you. Kim looked up at her older brother quickly as if in panic.

Who told you that? Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line.

It wasn’t a big deal. We didn’t think it was important to tell you. Kim’s cold hand touched his cheek.

No. Joe shook away her hand. I’m her son, too. I deserve to know when something like that happens.

Who told you? That’s private information. Whoever told you is breaking the code of conduct, and I will have them fired.

That’s not the point, Clark. I have every right to know how she’s doing.

"She’s our mother. It doesn’t concern you," Clark snarled.

She’s my mom, too.

No, she’s not. Clark’s face was red, and his eyes narrowed down on Joe.

Clark. Kim tried to pull him back.

She’s my mom. She raised me. I . . . I care about her, Joe’s voice faltered at this confrontation he hadn’t foreseen this morning.

All you were was a wounded bird she took in. Clark clipped each word.

A pang of guilt hit Joe, so he backed down.

It was Mom who told me. She said she had an ‘old person moment.’ I put the pieces together, Joe formed the lie through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for Tori losing her job.

Come on, Kim, Clark snapped, heading into the building.

I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, Joe. You’re still a kid. One day you’ll understand. She kissed his cheek and followed her brother.

Brushing off the disgust, he climbed on his bike and headed for work.

Scotty

Scotty tossed the cab driver fifteen dollars and sent him on his way. That was the third college student he’d needed to carry out. It was a Tuesday. Who partied this hard on a Tuesday?

He sauntered back into the bar, examining the room. Things were finally slowing down.

Scotty worked at Sprinter’s. It was known around town as the best place to watch sports and as home to the best hamburgers on Earth. Scotty wasn’t sure whether the second part was true; he knew what the kitchen looked like, so he was too afraid to find out for himself.

Besides the kitchen, the rest of the bar was always pristine, due to Scotty’s directions. The walls, floors, and furniture were all made out of wood. They’d hung hockey jerseys on the walls and posters for local events. The bar was owned by a man named Larry Sprinter. Scotty hadn’t seen him since he was hired. He was a wealthy local man who owned the bar, a coffee shop called Sprinter’s Beans, and a juice joint called Sprinter’s Squeezed. Once Scotty was completely familiar with how the bar was run, Larry disappeared, happy with Scotty’s work ethic. The last time he heard, Larry was spending all of his time in his trailer in Florida. This didn’t bother Scotty, in fact he absolutely loved having the freedom to run the bar without any of the responsibilities of a business owner.

By twelve o’clock, last call on a Tuesday, Sprinter’s got pretty quiet, having only seven people left in total: three nerds in the corner discussing the film industry over their fourth pitcher; a couple on a date; Al Jenkins, who was one of Scotty’s regulars who came to watch whatever hockey game was on; and a pretty blonde girl at the bar, sipping rye and ginger.

Scotty turned to the girl. Last call.

That’s okay. If I have another, I’ll be crawling home.

What about a glass of water, then?

That sounds nice.

Scotty put some water in a glass and passed it to her. She wouldn’t stop looking at the three men in the corner.

Do you know them? Scotty was intrigued.

I want to. She blushed.

They’re dorks, Scotty said with a snort.

She gasped, her jaw dropping open, followed by a chastising finger point. No, not at all.

Are you kidding? They’ve been discussing sci-fi all night.

You’re silly. She waved him off. "See the one in the middle