My sister-house collapsed—again. Our aunties collected us up.

St. Patrick’s midnight bells shiver up my neck hairs. I quiet-step over my sleeping sisters, sneaking through Auntie Elsie’s front door to the wishing sewer. Carved on the iron grate is 1953, the year I came out of the water and became a girl. I release one smooth stone, a wish. Pebble small, pebble white, let me stay here all my nights.

Second stone carries a spell. Abra-can’t-grab-ya, no beans can have ya.

Third stone, an offering, a prayer. Oh, suffering children Lord, deliver us from Aunt Moral Corruption. Sacrifice swallowed. There, that’s done it, Jasper. We’ll be okay now.

Back inside, I crawl into the spy cave, resting my cheek on a rug that smells like an old man’s suit.

Tires ringing over the grate snap me up. I peek through the curtains. A car marked POLICE MONTRÉAL creeps like a panther against the curb. Bleedin’ Jesus, they’re back.

Auntie’s slippers slap down the hall to the knock. Boots, big as toolboxes, step in, crushing the blue flowers on the runner. “Just checking everything’s settled, ma’am.”

“Their mother is at St. Mary’s and we’ve made arrangements for the girls.”

“You hear of these things, but you never think. . . . Hope things improve.”

“Well, they can’t get worse.”

Hear that, Jasper? No worses. We’re staying.

In the kitchen Auntie hums “Joyful, Joyful” and motes swirl on the sunstream like they know the words by heart.

Sister number one skedaddles out the front door and into Scotty Davenport’s convertible.

I duck when Reverend Lowry swoops in like an angry owl, snatching sisters two and three, walloping them with a prayer before leaving, “And for these lambs, so scarred by man’s depravity, give strength and travelling mercies. Amen and amen.”

Down the path they go, shoulders freshly loaded with the sins of our father who aren’t in heaven.  

Aunt Delores pulls into the empty spot by the curb. Sister four bounces away. “Hey, Auntie Dee, you get the pick of the Appleton tree.”

Sister five slips out the back door without making a sound.

Mr. Whiskers chases rainbows sprinkled on the rug from the fancy vase. Look Jasper, a sign, like when the Almighty delivered Noah. Tell me the boat story, Hari.

Um, one night, a slice of moon fell into the ocean. Kangaroos welcomed us aboard Jasper’s Jewel. We sailed to Kentucky where all the reindeer wore blue sweaters and—

“Hariet.” Aunt Elsie tilts the green velvet chair. “Come on out, now. Mrs. MacLaren is here. Where’s your coat?”

“At the MacLaren’s. Under Jinxie’s head.”

“It’s near freezing today.” A grey sweater is sacrificed from the back of the closet. “You know, we wish we could keep you, too, but one is all we can manage and Jennah needs to be near her job.”

Auntie’s pretty fingers triple roll the sleeves. “There, how’s that?” The wool is the prickly kind. “Spectacular, Auntie.”

 

 

At the train station I wait where I’ve been told to stay put. I can’t see the dragon’s tail, but a worrisome blackness puffs from nose to middle. Cripes, Jasper, it’s coughing like Grandpa before he went to meet his baker. Riding a red-nosed dragon train to the ocean twists Jasper with excitement. I shove him down. You forgetting the horrification waiting at the end? Indescriptable acts upon my person, that’s what.

Mrs. MacLaren comes hurrying down the platform with the ticket and takes me by the hand to feed me to the dragon. “Up you get.” The step is half as high as me, which would be no trouble except for the situation under my dress. “Come on, Hariet, you’re too heavy for lifting.”

I oblige, hoisting up my eight years of flesh and bone.

“Good Lord, child, where are your panties?”

“Jory got the last ones.” One thing learned being smallest of six: you get what you get and most times you don’t.

She sacrifices fifty cents. “No time now. If you see a five-anddime could you manage to buy a pair?”

If I can travel my lone self from Montreal to Halifax to Sydney, I can buy underwears. They’ll be pink . . . no, green, with little flowers. “Mrs. MacLaren?”

“Yes?”

A salt-moon winks on my scuffy shoe as I tap the metal step like a world famous rocket dancer.

“Spit it out.”

“Is Daddy in a whale like Jonah?”

“He’s where he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“But what if his going hurts in my belly?”

“Just drink some warm milk and you’ll be fine.”

“Mrs. MacLaren.”

“What is it now?”

“Jinxie likes her white ear scratched best.”

“Soon as your mummy is on her feet you’ll be back scratching her ear yourself. Off you go now and find a seat.”

I can read so I know the brass-buttoned ticket-puncher is William. Jasper quivers in my pocket. Don’t be scared. Mr. Brassbuttons is just a walrus with a fancy biscuit tin on his head.

“Ticket, miss.” I dig inside Grandma’s broke-strap carryall, past my swirl-coloured ball, Jasper’s matchbox bed, toothbrush, bottle of hero ashes, and mittens that Grandma knit, to reach the ticket.

“Quite the journey you’re taking. Someone meeting you in Halifax?” “No. My Auntie Moral Corruption is collecting me in Sydney.”

“Who?”

“After my sisters got doled out she was the only one left.” I heave the God-have-mercy load off my chest. “Beans. There’s big trouble with them.”