Three Years with the Rat by Jay Hosking Read Free Book Online

to lean on him as she took off her boots. Meanwhile John was this giant, smiling, calm presence, and best of all to me, he didn’t turn to greet me until his interaction with Grace was complete. Then he shook my hand firmly, radiated a gentle authority, and made me feel that anything I had to say was welcome.
    That Christmas dinner had the least conflict I’d observed in my family for ten years. Once or twice it got shaky, Grace’s patience was tested, but John managed to absorb all the tension in the room. He just sat in my father’s old chair at the table and nodded, listened, invited my mother and me to open up. My mother ate up his attention, and if I’m being honest, so did I. And when my sister smiled at him, it wasn’t with that sad resigned smile, but warm and whole and enthusiastic about the future. Things weren’t perfect for Grace, but they were better than they’d been in a long time, and I couldn’t help giving John some of the credit.
    —
    And then it’s morning in my bedroom. Grey-white light is coming in through the window and I know it will be a shitty day outside. I don’t know what day it is, though, so I crawl off the bed and dig my phone from the pocket of my jeans. Monday, nine-thirty a.m. I have slept almost twelve hours and I’m thirty minutes late for work.
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I say aloud.
    I throw on the same jeans, different socks, and a light sweater over my T-shirt. The sweater makes it a work outfit. On top of this I put John’s black jacket. My mouth is hot and acrid so I quickly brush my teeth but there is no time to look at my hair. I am out the door.
    As I prepare to run down to Queen Street, something catches my eye: the landlord or somebody else has removed the persimmon tree from the ground. All that remains is a dark, grassless bump in the soil. I will miss the tree. It makes me think of Buddy’s disappearance but I’ve already locked the door and I need to go. I run.
    I’m sweating when I get to work. I can feel one of my bosses watching me through the many plates of glass in our office, and soon I hear the heels of his shoes clacking along the hardwood. He corners me while I’m hanging John’s jacket in the closet and his cheery voice makes it clear that his wife, my other boss, has sent him to talk to me.
    “Do you have anything pressing this morning?” he asks.
    I shake my head. “Just those emails to Ottawa, but they can wait.”
    “Why don’t we grab a coffee?” His upbeat tone indicates something heavy is coming.
    I look over his shoulder. His wife is in her office and wearing a pinched expression on her face. We make eye contact for a moment. Then she looks down her long nose and through her glasses to the computer screen. I turn to her husband and nod. The sweat on my back irritates the skin around my stitches and my guts are screaming from last night’s scotch.
    We leave the office and walk in silence past the makeshift art galleries and nonprofits that fill the rest of the building. I will miss this workplace, its wide hallways and head-to-toe wood. The coffee shop is at the front of the building and is mostly empty this time of day. My boss points me to a table and orders for us. I sit. There is a plant on the other side of the glass, something hardy and flowerless, and its pot is full of bent cigarette butts. People hustle through the intersection, their outfits split evenly between semi-formal office wear and very tight denim and plaid.
    My boss sets a porcelain cup of café Americano in front of me, a little milk drizzled in it, and a latte next to himself. He is the type to remember what kind of coffee other people drink.
    “So.” He’s speaking in that voice he uses when his wife isn’t around, like a frank father. “You’re not making it easy for me here.”
    “I know,” I tell him. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry it reflects badly on you. She shouldn’t punish you for it.”
    “We know you’re good at your job. She