Dreaming of Canada

Dreaming Dreaming of Canada of Canada

LEAH MUELLER

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You are thirteen and live with your parents in a large gray house on the corner of Niles and Pinzon. Your home holds secrets in every crevice. Its beveled glass windows are half hidden by oak trees. No one knows what goes on inside.

Tuscola, Illinois resembles a scene from a Norman Rockwell print, only more sinister. You escape from home whenever possible and speed through the streets on your bicycle. Each building exudes malevolence. At any moment, someone might emerge and taunt you. At least you can outrun them.

Your social studies teacher has given you an assignment: pretend you’re going to Canada in a car with unlimited gasoline. Otherwise, you own nothing. You have a $500 allowance, which you must use to purchase everything you need—a tent, sleeping bag, frying pans, silverware, food, and clothing. It’s 1972, so these items are cheap. Still, you need to budget carefully and write an essay about your experience, itemizing all expenses.

You peer at Sunday ads in the local newspaper, taking voluminous notes. Though you’ve never been to Canada, you imagine an exotic, tree-covered land, full of polite citizens. Nothing like Tuscola, with its drab cornfields and malevolent teenagers. You fantasize about canned pineapple and new blue jeans. Three pairs for ten dollars. Could you afford a camp stove, or would firewood and matches be sufficient? What about a fishing pole?

You pedal your bike towards Route 36, dreaming of escape. A small white building on the corner serves as your turnaround point. The place stood vacant for years, but today it bustles with activity. Two men are hauling boxes of fruit inside. Fresh bananas, oranges, even a pile of mangoes. You wonder what it would cost to purchase fruit for your imaginary excursion. Couldn’t hurt to ask.

As you draw closer, you notice the men’s matching red hair and pale, freckled skin. Identical twins! They introduce themselves as Larry and Don. When you mention your assignment, they look thrilled.

For the next two weeks, you visit the fruit store every day. Larry and Don answer your questions and listen patiently as you complain about your classmates. “I don’t see why anyone would be mean to a nice girl like you,” Larry says.

Your mother is suspicious of your new friends. You expect her to punish you for spending time at the fruit store, but she just shakes her head and says, “I don’t like it.” When you explain your assignment, she reluctantly complies.

You finally complete your paper and head to the fruit store to share the good news. After you pedal to the window and peer inside, you notice the interior is barren, vacant. Every piece of fruit has vanished. An empty pop can sits alone on a counter, like someone drank it fast and disappeared. A couple of upended boxes remain on the dusty floor. Larry and Don have left like thieves in the night.

The feeling of betrayal is so intense that it makes you dizzy. You go home, retreat to your bedroom, and cry for an hour. Your mother demands to know the reason for your distress. You have no choice but to tell her. “Good,” she says. “There was something really creepy about those two men.”

You wonder how she could possibly know, since she never showed any interest in meeting them. Your mother spends all her time in the house, corralling your unruly siblings and dodging blows from your stepfather.

“There’s something really creepy about our entire household,” you snap.

For once, your mother has no reply.

The teacher gives you an A-plus. He is so taken with your essay that he reads it aloud to the class. Afterwards, the kids hate you more than ever. You don’t really care because you know they’re idiots. You wish Don and Larry were around. They’d be so proud of you.

Four years later, your parents sell the house and move to a smaller town. Your new classmates are even worse than the kids in Tuscola. You do manage to make one friend. Pat smokes Kools and drives a 10-year-old Mustang. She’s not a deep thinker, but at least she likes you.

The two of you spend Saturday afternoons on the road, driving between towns. You love to look at old farmhouses and imagine who lives there. One afternoon, you spot a man with a blue pickup truck, selling watermelons by the side of the road. Pat doesn’t want to stop, but you insist. She screeches to a halt, and you run over.

With a shock, you recognize the man’s red hair and ruddy complexion. You don’t know if you’re looking at Larry or Don, but it hardly matters. His face breaks into a crooked grin. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he drawls. “How have you been?”

“Where’s your brother?” You’re almost breathless with excitement.

“Larry’s home today. But I’ll tell him you said hello.”

You choose a watermelon from the pile and hand him a couple of bucks. It’s the first time you’ve actually paid one of the brothers for their wares. Don grins and stuffs the money into his pocket. “Great to see you again,” he says. “How’d your assignment go?”

“Oh, fine.” You wonder if you should ask about his mysterious departure. After a moment, you decide against it. The reason no longer matters. You toss the watermelon into Pat’s back seat. She leans out the window, looking bored as she exhales smoke. Pat can’t sit still for long. The poor girl doesn’t even like the taste of watermelon.

You climb into the passenger seat and wave at Don. Pat fires up the engine, and the two of you roar off in a cloud of exhaust. For the first time in weeks, you feel happy. Your watermelon rolls and bounces in the back seat. You can’t wait to get home, cut open the fruit, and feel its juices roll down your chin.

Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. It has also been featured in trees, shop windows in Scotland, poetry subscription boxes, and literary dispensers throughout the world. Her flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” will appear in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press’ “Best Small Fictions” anthology. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.