Excerpt: Most Grievous Fault by Meg Todd

Excerpted with permission from Nightwood Editions

Crystal didn’t look up. She finished her coffee. Touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth where a blister was forming. She considered asking Jean to buy her another drink. Maybe a mocha with whip. She thought about it for a moment. Jean would press her lips together and not quite look at her. She wouldn’t say no, but she would mean no. She would mean how can you even ask? Jean was all about making do. She lived in a house that belonged to the church where she worked. A nondescript hundred-year-old house that was squashed between dilapidated wood-framed character houses that all lacked character because of neglect or poverty or indifference. Everything in that neighbourhood needed attention. It was part of the appeal for Jean. The house had one bathroom with a stained and peeling cast iron tub. The toilet and sink too were permanently rust-stained. The wiring was knob and tube and Jean warned Crystal that touching the pony wall beside the stove while stirring the pot would result in a mild shock. Jean had learned to live with cupboards that didn’t close and a fridge that froze the vegetables and leaked water. She boarded up windows broken as a result of desperate souls looking for some form of respite. She swept up glass and condoms and needles, picked up discarded bottles and garbage. Hardship, in her opinion, brought one closer to God.

Crystal didn’t ask for the second drink. She sat back in her chair and pulled her chin to her chest. “Why are you talking to people about Becky? It’s none of their business.”

“Crystal. Please. Let’s focus on forward movement. It’s October next week, early enough in the school year that she won’t have missed much. And I’m willing to help for a bit. With the fees.”

Crystal sat up then. “What do you mean fees? What fees? You have to pay? I can’t …” She stopped. She didn’t need Jean to launch into her spiel about priorities and impulses and budgeting and balancing and doing without. The virtues of waiting. What Jean didn’t understand was that they needed the smart TV. Who didn’t have a smart TV? And they watched TV every day, that’s what they did, and Becky liked it and it was something they did together and wasn’t Jean always saying they had to do things together? And the man had explained that it was the only way to go, he gave them a deal and said it would give them everything they needed, right at their fingertips. And the phones. Everyone knew phones had to be replaced. Things were always changing. And then Crystal remembered the car, suddenly. She hadn’t told Jean. But Jean hadn’t asked, so it was okay. Because saying nothing wasn’t lying.

“You know how expensive stuff is? I’m not a money machine, you know. I’m not magic.” She rubbed her hands up and down her thighs and looked at the people lined up for noodles or burgers or pizza. The smell of lunch. She was getting hungry now. And her head hurt. She wanted to be at home.

“They’re willing to make concessions because of your circumstances. I went ahead and called. As far as I can see, you don’t have any other options.”

Becky lifted her head. “Who … who are you … who … who did you … call?” Purple stickiness was dripping from her chin and Crystal could see the couple at the next table looking over. The woman’s hair was dark and long and sleek. She wore lipstick. Eyebrows perfectly shaped. The man was in a leather jacket. They were sharing a box of fries, taking turns dipping into the dixie cup of ketchup between them.

Crystal leaned across the table to wipe Becky’s chin. “Can’t you at least … ?” she hissed. She wiped the spills from the table and turned to Jean. “My circumstances. What circumstances? Have you ever heard of privacy? What did you tell him?”

“The principal seems to be a very kind man. And she needs to go to school. Full stop.”

“Who … who?” Becky’s mouth was hanging open and she was looking from one to the other. “Who .… who is ki .… who is ki .… kind?”

The woman beside them caught Crystal’s eye and smiled and then she turned to the man and they both smiled and Crystal saw something between them. A flash of recognition or sympathy or disgust—something. Crystal thought of her grade four teacher. Tall and slim with long nails. Perfect lipstick. Miss Enright read books that went on for weeks and kept them rapt. She let them fingerpaint and make papier-mâché masks. She believed puppet shows and singing were an integral part of childhood. And Bingo. Bottom lip between her teeth, Crystal focused. The other children had won before, some multiple times. They were almost bored with winning and they were certainly bored with the game, the prize a doughnut on hot lunch days. But Crystal. On the edge of her seat. She repeats each letter and number as she finds it. And then. Her card is full. A miracle! She leaps up, shouting that she won, she won! She shows everyone her winning card, pride clutching her throat. She shows them the ticket that will be exchanged for a doughnut, which she can almost taste. But by the end of recess the ticket has disappeared. She’s frantic, searching through her pockets, her cubby, the folds of her clothing. She retraces her steps. Where is it? Has anyone found it? Miss Enright says that’s the way life goes. Next time she’ll look after the ticket, won’t she. And then she taps her nails on the blackboard and settles the class for arithmetic which overwhelms Crystal at the best of times.

Crystal glared at the woman with the man and the fries and the eyebrows. She stood up and told Becky they were fucking leaving right fucking now because what were they even doing here in this stupid place and did Jean really think a religious school was going to help? Really? Because okay. Fine then. But it would be her fault. Whatever happened it would be Jean’s fault. All of it.