Blackout

July 9. It has only been ten hours and I miss my sweet Clara already. Jordy and little Timmy ask me where their mama went. How but how can a father explain to his two little boys that mama left. And without saying goodbye?

Max traced his finger nails along the faint creases in his forehead, as his other hand cradled the black ink pen that spilled his words across the yellow lined paper. How intimate the pen reached the paper, caressing something so bare and blank from its overflow.

Max squinted, his eyes tired from the dull, dancing candle light. Releasing the pen from his hand, and letting it rest on the page that seemed to yawn at him, he pulled himself back from the oak desk, as the chair gnawed its heels on the wooden plank floor.

It was time to check the lights and the stove. The electricity had gone out last night during the rain and wind storm that swept in across Georgian Bay. And maybe, took Clara with it, he thought, with a twinge of satire. He was surprised at this thought, since most of today was spent in a whirlwind of confusion, doubt, desperation, the moment he woke to finding his wife of eleven years gone.

She will be back, another thought soothed the satire from a moment ago.

He picked up the silver, tarnished votive that housed the burning candle and let it guide him with his swaying, dancing light from the den, along the small corridor, and to the left where his--their--bedroom was.

His hand flicked the light switch on the wall. The bulb lamp from the ceiling caught him with a flash of light, and it stirred and amazed him at the same time. He felt like a star now, being smashed with bright camera light from a paparazzi.

He put the candle to sleep with a whisk of his breath, as the waxy smoke swirled like little ghosts.

His eyes scanned the room. Their room. He hadn't entered it since he woke to find that part of the bed where she slept--the right side--void. She was not a morning person. They used to laugh at that. Except when she was pregnant with Jordy and Timmy, and she had that awful morning sickness that sent her flinging off the cotton sheets and racing for the washroom those early mornings.

And she would stumble back to their queen sized Victorian style bed, her auburn, wavy hair curled back behind her ears, her bangs pasted to her sweaty forehead. He would swing his arm gently between her protruding tummy and her full, firm breasts and hold her as they lay there. The sun filtering through the double pane window, warm on their faces. He would watch her as she fell asleep, her lips upturned in content, her pregnant full blushed cheeks like red poppies on a snow laced landscape.

"Daddy," a small whimpering voice sought him.

Max swiveled from the bed, the sheets still in tangles from the night before. Unmade. Forgotten.

Timmy stood in the door way, his deep brown eyes as big as the mud holes in the garden.

The garden.

Max could still feel the gritty soil in his finger nails from the gardening he did this morning. He had managed to persuade Jordy and Timmy to help him. It would help them forget about their mama leaving, and, he told them, how happy she would be to see the pink peonies planted for her on her return.

They had helped him, their faces smudged with black earth and tears. And poopy noses, as Jordie said, referring to their runny noses.

Max deflected from this morning's gardening, and knelt to Timmy's level, all but three feet tall.

"It's okay, Timmy boy," he crooned, and ran his burly hand through his five year old son's reckless brown hair.

"M...mama," the boy sobbed, as Max pulled his quivering son to his chest.

"It's okay, daddy is here," Max's voice swished in the boy's waiting ear, brushing away a strand of lost hair, and pressing his lips to the boy's hair that still smelled of earthy soil.

"When is she coming home?" Jordy appeared then. Three years older than his five year old brother, he had a stammer in his voice. "Where is she? Mama wouldn't leave us!" he screeched.

Max stretched an arm out to quell the little volcano of a boy. So much like his mother, a thought tugged his mind. Strong and fiery beneath the beauty.

Max silently retired the almost tattered "Me And My Dragon" hard cover book on the end table next to Timmy's bed once the boy had been succumbed by sleep and dreams of friendly dragon pets. He was not sure exactly what he was reading, his voice read the words from the book, but his mind distanced. Timmy, however, was enthused. Upon closing the book the first time, Timmy unleashed a sweeping desire that he read it again. Because it was the one mama read to him too.

Jordy lay on the single bed adjacent to Timmy's, his face turned to the wall adorned with posters of Spider Man and Harry Potter.

Now and again, Max would stop his reading from "Me And My Dragon", and glance over to Jordy, only to see the back of his head, a wad of wavy auburn hair. Just like his Mama's. He watched the lift and fall of Jordy's chest, not sure if he was sleeping, or just in wake.

"Good night, boys," Max whispered into the sea of waves of breathing from the boys, flicked the light switch on the wall, and drew the door to a close.

He trudged down the carpeted hallway to the kitchen, and swung open the humming refrigerator, retrieving a can of Coor's Light.

The can spit and hissed as he opened it and swallowed the cold brew.

A hot humid breeze filtered through the open screen window, splashed with dead flies.

He leaned against the sink, cluttered with used dishes, caked with food of their demise the past few days. Ketchup and mustard from the ham and bologna sandwiches they had for lunch and dinner, since the power was out.

He remembered leaning against this same sink with Clara, sharing a can each of Coor's. He loved how she laughed at his jokes, her head thrown back, as the joys of that moment swirled around her.

And then that night when the storm started. He leaned in to kiss her swan-like white neck, the scent of Eternity wafted. He placed his hand on her tummy. It seemed to be swollen.

'Are you..." he started, hesitantly, recoiling his hand from the bump.

'No..No, I'm not...pregnant? No," she relapsed into a slight giggle.

But he knew that giggle. When she was not telling the truth.

'We can't afford another baby,' he had said, an abrupt yet bashful announcement.

'Well, you know I like some nice flowers,' her voice slid like an out of control car from a ditch into a safe zone.

He smiled and drew her close to him, even as she stiffened in his arms. He never wanted to let her go.

That was when the rain began and the wind rushed in.

July 31. Still missing my sweet Clara. It is hard trying to comfort the boys on my own. They don't understand why their mama never came back. We've been doing alot of gardening around the house. Clara loved her flowers. Jordy..oh, Jordy. Stubborn as his mama. He asks why so many flowers? Because the Densley's damn dog keeps digging them up, always sniffing around. Anyway, I hope there is no more black outs. It is sunny here today. Might as well enjoy the summer before the snow comes. Then--well--maybe we can put poppies around. So pretty on the white snow. Just like my sweet Clara.

There was a rapping on the door. Max closed his journal and placed his pen neatly beside the leather bound book. Rain? He thought? No one ever visits except Mrs. Langley next door who was generous enough to offer them casseroles and desserts. Nosy enough, too, Max thought, as each offer he took, he closed the door with good riddance.

He passed the large bay window and stopped. No rain. As sunny as could be. And he smiled at the array of pink peonies the boys and he planted in the front lawn.

Then proceeded to the front door, expecting Mrs. Langley perhaps again, even though they had already enjoyed her apple fritters this morning.

He unlatched the door, as it squealed in protest as he slowly peeled it open.

Two gentlemen in blue and and black attire stood before him. Both flashed a badge in unison, that caused Max's eyes to sting, as the sunlight retracted from them.

One of the gentleman removed his cap and tucked it safely in his palms, as if offering a bouquet of flowers.

"Max Goreman?" the gentleman who held the bouquet of his cap in his hands, announced.

"Yes," Max nodded. The smile now plastic on his unshaven face. He swallowed hard, a razor sharp swallow that he was sure it could be heard. "Did you find Clara?"

The gentleman with his cap still planted firmly on his head, opened his tight lips to speak.

"Where were you on July ninth"?