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Théodora Armstrong: Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

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Théodora Armstrong Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Set against the divergent landscape of British Columbia — from the splendours of nature to its immense dangers, from urban grease and grit to dry, desert towns — Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility examines human beings and their many frailties with breathtaking insight and accuracy. Théodora Armstrong peoples her stories with characters as richly various — and as compelling — as her settings. A soon-to-be father and haute cuisine chef mercilessly berates his staff while facing his lack of preparedness for parenthood. A young girl revels in the dark drama of the murder of a girl from her neighbourhood. A novice air-traffic specialist must come to terms with his first loss — the death of a pilot — on his watch. And the dangers of deep canyons and powerful currents spur on the reckless behaviour of teenagers as they test the limits of bravery, friendship, and sex. With startling intimacy and language stripped bare, Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility announces the arrival of Théodora Armstrong as a striking new literary voice.

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“Nothin’,” Anna shrugs and Leslie turns a shade of red.

The ferry shudders to life and pulls away from the dock.

“I’m stuck,” Leslie says, looking out the window. “There’s no room to open the door.”

“It’s a ten-minute ride,” Ted says. “Close your eyes and we’ll be there.”

“But I want to get out!” Leslie rattles the door handle.

“There’s no passenger cabin,” Ted says. “Everyone stays in their cars.”

“I want to walk around,” Leslie whines. “My legs are cramping.”

Anna scrambles through the space between the two front seats and slumps down in the passenger side, bringing an arm up over her face. The skin of her forearm is translucent, a flawless white threaded with blue veins. “Seriously,” she mutters. “She doesn’t shut up.”

“We’re going to have a nice weekend,” Ted says, tapping Anna’s knee lightly.

The rain has stopped and the island is circled in a thick mist hanging low along its shores, the green hump of its back breaching the haze like a whale surfacing. Leslie is finally quiet and Ted, the full weight of the workweek suddenly hitting him, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

Many years ago a minivan plunged off the loading ramp of a ferry leaving Tsawwassen. There was a reason Ted couldn’t remember: rough waters, a careless worker, a mechanical malfunction. The van sank in the deep water where the ferry berthed, and got trapped between the massive hull of the boat and the barnacled underwater pillars of the dock, making the rescue difficult. There was a family inside: three children, a mother, and a father. The father was the only one who survived. He managed to pull out one child, a daughter, who died later in hospital. It took them several hours to haul the minivan to the surface. What could anyone do? A car fills quickly. Water makes movements slow. A scramble over the seats takes forever, like a thick-limbed nightmare. Ted can’t imagine the feeling of failure that must haunt that father. Heather used to use the story as a warning, a way of keeping Leslie and Anna quiet in the back seat. That’s when the girls started holding their breath.


OVER DINNER LAST WEEK, Ted told Heather about the property. He recounted Jim’s description of the five acres of untouched land, the hundred-year-old trees, the salmon fishing, the cliff that drops into a clear, calm bay. He didn’t tell her about the weathered Adirondack chair he imagined set near the edge of the cliff, where he could have his morning coffee and look out at the ocean — he kept that one for himself.

“What do you think?” Ted said.

“Sounds like an oasis.” Heather picked up her fork and poked it around the plate without picking up anything.

“I could use a new project.” Ted leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and looked around the room. “There’s not much left to do around here.”

“Sure,” Heather said, raising her eyebrows in agreement. “You like to be busy.”

Ted and Heather own a house in Fairfield, a three-bedroom revamped 1920s heritage home on Wildwood Avenue, a short drive to Gonzales Beach and Beacon Hill and an easy commute to Heather’s dental practice and his office in downtown Victoria. When they moved in, Heather had the house repainted and chose an imperial green with a red trim for the windowsills and front door. It’s not a colour Ted would have chosen, but it’s grown on him and suits the neighborhood, and he has to admit the house looks exceptional during the holidays. His favourite part of the day is the short trip from his car to his front door; along the walkway, with a quick stop at the mailbox, the clack of its little metal door, and up the steps until the moment his feet rest on the welcome mat.

“I think I’ll take the girls with me,” Ted said. They had stopped eating, but their plates still sat in front of them, the food long gone cold and both Ted and Heather too tired to clear the table. Anna and Leslie had excused themselves. From upstairs, pop music blared, commingling with the sound of the television downstairs.

“Would you like to come?” he said.

“Pardon?” For the first time during the meal, Heather looked directly at him. Sometimes he had the urge to reach out to her, give her a shake, shout: Wake up.

“Sorry, I was thinking of something else,” she said, scraping the food to one side of the plate.

“Can you get time off work?” Ted popped a cold carrot into his mouth, not because he wanted to eat it, but for something to do. He had the urge to spit it out, but realized that would be ridiculous and instead held it in his mouth for a moment before crunching through it and swallowing. The carrots were undercooked.

“Maybe,” Heather said. “Although I could get some stuff done here while you’re gone.” He didn’t picture Heather getting stuff done. He pictured her making tea and wandering around the house, forgetting her half-empty mug somewhere to get cold and heating the kettle all over again. He imagined cold cups of half-finished tea all over the house. He had a suspicion she was cheating on him or thinking of cheating on him. He had acted the same way two years ago, when he was thinking of cheating on her.

“Not next week but the week after,” Ted said.

Heather carried the plates into the kitchen. “For how long?”

“Couple days.” Ted sat back in his chair and considered getting up to help, but he felt too comfortable and instead watched Heather move around the kitchen.

“I think I’ll stay. I could use the time,” she said, scraping off the dishes. “Don’t let Leslie eat a lot of junk. She’s gaining weight again. I’m going to have to put her back on that diet.”

Ted didn’t argue with the diets; he let Heather do as she wished. She was convinced Leslie’s “episodes” were the result of poor nutrition. Ever since the social worker had paid them a visit, Heather had been taking out stacks of books from the library: Superfoods for Special Kids, Brain Foods for Teens, Healthy Diets for Super Kids. Ted thought these so-called “episodes” — the screaming and the violence — were nothing more than the antics of a spoiled brat. Leslie was immature, afraid to grow up; she still played with Barbie dolls at fourteen. It was ridiculous, Leslie calling child services for a slap across the face, making them sit through a family assessment, the counsellor’s critical gaze, the long pauses as he cautiously chose his words. Ted would never forget the look of distress and satisfaction on Leslie’s face when he opened the door to the man with the guarded smile and the file folder. Her expression read as both a question and an affirmation: I can do this to you.

Heather hadn’t been the same since, hadn’t been the same with him since. It was an embarrassment, two professionals being interrogated like that. It was as though she blamed it on him, somehow — his late nights and extended workweeks — but he wasn’t the one who had raised his hand and he wasn’t the one who had called child services.

Ted got out of his chair and went over to Heather, who stood at the sink rinsing the dishes. “Maybe the trip will cheer Anna up,” Heather said. “She’s been miserable to me.”

He leaned into her, bent to her ear. “Anna’s fine. She’s always fine,” he whispered. “She’s the good one, remember?” Anna was the child who sang you songs while she helped load the dishwasher, who left her dirty boots at the door, who cleaned her plate without bribery. Leslie was the child who ate glue.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Heather said, shaking her head. “I think she might be flunking out of Camosun.”

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