Words By Whittall

  Jump. J on t he triple letter for 28 points.  Great word, Betsy, you bitch. That was my spot. Don’t spoil my fun, Chelsea. You’re winning by 50 points. You’re my word idol— Woof! —And, speaking of vicarious thrills, has that guy from Frank’s gym called you yet? Frank? The one who couldn’t take his eyes off of you. He’s the Frank. And no, he hasn’t called. What about you? Woof! Woof!! Calm down, Thor. You just had walkies. Chelsea, I can’t flirt like you. It’s fun to watch, but I’m not built that way. We are built exactly the same. We may be similar in size, but you have discernable breasts and glowing, flaxen hair. You need that new shampoo and I need to make a word of vowels. There. Eight measly points. Ai is a word? It’s a three-toed, sloth. Look it up. You see Chels? You make the best with what you have – in Scrabble and life. You make a great word out of two vowels, and you point your breasts and flaxen hair at handsome men who own gyms...

“Well, if I had to hazard a guess…” Bobby let his sentence trail off without finishing. He’d heard his mom use that phrase and it sounded so smart. Hazzard a guess . Bobby wasn’t smart, but he was good at guessing. He figured that sooner or later he’d guess what it was these two men wanted him to say.   “Don’t guess, Bobby. Tell us what really happened,” Farbester said slowly. “Something relating to her head.” Bobby figured the question was important since the detective asked it so often and spoke so clearly and slowly. “Her head?” he asked. “Her head,” Farbester repeated while the other cop motioned to the back of his own head with his index finger cocked just behind the right ear. Bobby couldn’t remember the other cop’s name, but he stunk of aftershave. He looked at the clock. Five hours. Five hours he’d been in this room with these men, and it still reeked of shitty aftershave. “Bobby!”   Farbester shouted. “Focus! Her head. What happened to her head?” “I don’t kn...

  “It’s not the fall that kills you,” Tom Rafuse always used to say. “It’s the landing!” Millicent Dunbar – Millie – heard Tom tell the gag many, many times. He had an easygoing manner, a penchant for pocket protectors, and the meaty paunch and polyester wardrobe of a much-beloved high school shop teacher, which he was. Tom’s wife, Rose, was downright dim – always at his side, looking up adoringly. Millie watched their delightful backyard barbeques through her kitchen window. Tom’s monster hamburgers and stupid repetitive jokes; Rose’s exquisite potato salad and chilled cherry cheesecake.   Of course, the laughter stopped when Rose was found dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, her blood pooling under shelves of raspberry jelly and pickled beets. It was, indeed, the landing and not the fall that killed her. The coroner ruled the cause of death a broken neck. The manner of death she left undetermined. A tall detective with an odd moustache came to question Tom daily fo...

My mother didn’t teach me to shave;  she actively tried to stop me. She argued that I was too young, unconvinced by my pleas that all the other girls were doing it; unconvinced by the 34 Double C bras she had to order from the Sears catalogue. I didn't want boobs at aged 10. I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want hairy legs at age 13, either.  I had a mind of my own and my body, alas, did too, regardless of Mom's "too young" argument.  By grade eight, all the other girls – or at least one of them – suggested I see to my legs and underarms before we donned bathing suits for the upcoming co-ed class swimming lesson, which was a big deal. We were to be bussed from our small rural school to a sports complex in Kitchener, big deal.  I would see Robert Woods in his bathing suit and he in mine, big deal! Without telling Mom, I simply borrowed the gummy turquoise Lady Shick that she kept in a bathroom drawer alongside a congealing jar of Noxema and a disi...

  Mother summons me to her office on Monday morning to scold me and  I’m transported back in time. I’m five years old. Her red pinched lips are shouting and her red-tipped finger is wagging at me. You horrible bad girl, where is Mother’s sweater? What did you do with it?   I’d taken it to bed with me, to feel something soft that smelled like her mix of menthol cigarettes and Chanel Number Five.   While she and the rest of the family were skiing in Mount Tremblant, I’d explored our big empty house, including Mother’s walk-in closet. The sweater, cashmere, lay crumpled on the floor. I hid there, amongst her clothes, shoes, purses and scarves, missing my family – my father who was rarely home but smiled and sometimes told me stories; my boisterous teenage brothers, who were rarely home but sometimes played games with me; and my mother who was always home and whom I tried so very hard to emulate and please. I hid the sweater under a pillow in my frilly pink bedroom. Rosi...

  Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face.   At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” s...