The Between Years by Derek Clendening Read Free Book Online Page A

food he'd bought, the tub would have to do, he decided. He hauled his shirt off, unbuckled his jeans, pulled his boxers down, and gave the tub a final stare. Then he tiptoed inside as if he could evade the bacteria, until his heels finally rested on the bathmat. When he twisted the hot and cold taps, the showerhead shuddered and hissed then finally sprayed him with warm water.

    He found a cracked bar of yellow soap that looked stuck to the dish and remembered that it couldn't have been touched in more than a year. The tiles were covered in mildew. Then he noticed a silver bar that sparkled in contrast to the rest of the tub and remembered that his Dad had installed it two years ago so Bupa could keep his balance in the shower. Randy let the water spray over his face, then flipped the cap on the body wash he'd bought at Avondale, squirted two dollops onto his hand, and spread it over his chest, arms and trunk.

    Before long, relief consumed him, his joints and muscles loosened, and he wished he'd taken the shower sooner. He shut the taps off, slid the door open, and probed the bathroom for a towel. To her credit, Carol had always made sure fresh towels were at the ready so he could never be in want of one. He stepped out of the tub and tracked water across the linoleum floor en route to finding anything to dry himself with. He spotted the cabinet above the toilet, opened it, and found it stocked to the top with towels, but ones that likely had not been washed in some time.

    He grabbed the towel at the top of the stack and spread it over his head like a parachute to scrub his hair, face and the rest of his body dry. Then he brushed his teeth, shaved and stepped back into his boxers, jeans and t-shirt. A sniff of each armpit told him he'd need fresh clothes soon. Please God, tell me the washer and dryer in this place still work!

    For now, that would land on his checklist, alongside buying groceries, and cleaning the place up. Downstairs had been cluttered beyond his imagination, yet he was stunned by the furniture and garbage that clogged the upstairs hallway. Ancestral homes accumulated generations of history, but also generations of junk, he now understood. Randy decided he would do his part by clearing out the bulk of it.

    He skipped downstairs, the ocean smell of his body wash filling his nostrils, headed for the kitchen when he stopped dead in the hallway. The sweet smell of gingerbread cookies wafted into his nose. He inched forward and followed the aroma into the kitchen. He found no one inside, and yet he felt like he wasn't alone, like someone would approach him from behind and tap his shoulder. He closed his eyes then opened them. Very distinctly, he saw himself seated in a high chair, only he was sure he was too old for one. His legs hung out over the seat and only a small gap stood between the tray and his chest.

    Nana stirred a bowl presumably filled with gingerbread cookie dough with a wooden spoon, singing a song she might have made up, while the television buzzed in the background. Randy saw himself holding a tin measuring cup filled with milk, while he bounced up and down to Nana's tune. When his excitement peaked, he spilled his milk all over his shirt and tray. He stopped dead, as if afflicted by a sudden fart. Tears filled his eyes and Nana patted his hand and rushed to the fridge for more milk.

    His cup refilled, he and Nana resumed their song and dance. Nana seemed always to know how to remedy any problem. Older Randy remarked how carefree those days were, when nothing mattered except for baking cookies and painting pictures.

    Then the house's side door swung open, and Bupa stepped inside wearing a blue jacket and Toronto Maple Leafs cap. He hung his jacket and cap on the rack in the hall then sat at the kitchen table where Nana had prepared his lunch. Older Randy was certain Bupa had retired by that point-he had hung up his tights at the steel mill a year early, in fact-but he supposed he could have