How Happy to Be by Katrina Onstad Read Free Book Online Page A

gives me a – could this be right? – black-power gesture with her fist.
    The cab I’m targeting is blocked by the Flock of Critics. I know it sounds glamorous, I’m aware of the palpable envyaround this job, but have you met any film critics? Would you really want to live among them? Film critics are mushroom people. They dwell indoors, light is not a friend, conversation not of the species. Spongy, white, male, between forty and sixty, a little socially stunted, incapable of eye contact, clad in depressed denim shirts and cords. This is not the eighteenth-century salon: exchange, analysis, debate – oh no. Just uncomfortable nods before and after screenings, the occasional suspicious “What did you think?” in the lobby (Proper answer: “What did
you
think?”).
    One pops out from the fold, stepping in between my beloved cab and me. “Hello, Maxime,” says the critic from
The Examiner
, local tabloid with a propensity for the all-caps front page featuring the word
shame
, as in SHAME! SINGLE MOTHER CAUGHT WITH T ORONTO RAPTOR! Or SHAME! GOVERNOR-GENERAL GETS PEDICURE, JET!
The Examiner
invented the hyperbolic six-star movie rating, and as the hobbity old critic scampers my way, he manifests those six stars in human form: “You look fabulous! It’s going to be a great festival!” He delivers the two-cheek kiss, smelling like cigarettes and computer screens.
    “World class,” I tell him, trying to deke around his body and get to the cab.
    He leans in: “I just interviewed Ethan Hawke. Super nice guy! Are you going to catch him while he’s in town?”
    Ah, a reconnaissance mission. My answer will determine when they run their piece. I should be like
The Examiner
guy: stealth and dog loyal to my newspaper, willing to kiss and hustle so
The Daily
will be first. But I’m too tired andhungover to protect my corporation. Instead, I give up all information.
    “Yep. For Friday,” I say, knowing that
The Examiner
will now run their piece on Thursday.
    “Well, he’s a super nice guy!”
The Examiner
steps to the side. I pull at the cab door, but it’s stuck. I jiggle and
The Examiner
watches for a moment, then leans across me – oh, God, is he coming in for another kiss? – and grabs the handle, giving it a strong pull. A moment of kindness, or a declaration of triumph.
    “Thanks,” I murmur, off guard, swinging my legs into the backseat.
The Examiner
waves as we pull away.
    No call from Theo McArdle. I can’t call the Ex back, so I do something half-good and I call Elaine’s hotel, waiting until the exact moment that the car is entering the ravine that divides the city in half so the message goes: “Hi! It’s Max! Great to –” and then the gnarl of confused satellites. When we emerge, it’s still bright and leafless February and I am guilty – I really do feel it, thinking about Elaine. After my mom died there was a lot of movement, and Elaine, who emerged at the end of our travels, brought welcome stillness.
    The first months after the death had been quiet, a slow accumulation of squalor in the house that my father and I both silently consented to live with. The compost bin, a cutout milk carton on its side, overflowed with rot. I had to pick up my father’s strewn clothing from the hallway and carry it downstairs. These things felt like an insult, more unfairness to add to the steaming pile of it I’d been walking around, trying to avoid. So I started lighting garbage cans onfire at school. Dad drove me home silently, and as he pulled into the driveway in his pickup, he said, “We’re leaving, and that is what we’re leaving in.”
    A rusted milk truck. He let me paint it, a gift I later recognized as one for himself; something more he didn’t have to do.
    I attempted a mural of Big Bird, which my dad would never have allowed anyway (“So commercial, Max!”), but my skills were lacking and the bird looked like a big yellow cloud, which was beautiful to him. (And these are all stories I