Standing at the hotel window twelve years later, I’d fallen into that same comforting rhythm. Another wave of heavy snow had begun to fall, obscuring my view of the street. I pictured my replacement arriving home from his business trip, Meredith looking over with relief as his key slid into the lock, Christine coming out of her room to ask, Is Dad home?
Light exploded in my eyes. I fell back and felt the solid support of a forearm rise to meet me. My mother’s smiling face swung into view. She lowered me to her breast, humming softly, her face suffused with tenderness. I fed without reservation, without shame, struggling to hold her there in front of me, but my eyes were growing heavy with the gentle rocking of her body, and before I knew what was happening, I’d fallen asleep.
My flight home was delayed on account of the snow. With a few minutes to spare, I wandered the length of the terminal, ending up in the gift shop, where I came to their small collection of children’s books, surprised to see the latest installment in the Penelope series prominently featured. I picked it up with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. The cover depicted Penelope riding the back of her friend and protector, Swell, a large, hummingbird-like creature, through a wormhole into the future, her eyes bright with exaggerated joy. She looked nothing like Christine. I put the book down and quickly left the store.
It was getting late. By the time I found my gate, the other passengers had boarded. An unsmiling host directed me down a short hallway to the waiting aircraft, and I followed my ticket to a window seat near the back of the plane. There was hardly anyone on board, my entire row empty. A flight attendant in a pantsuit glided down the aisle, her long red hair in a bun, her face in shadow. She passed into business class and a heavy curtain fell shut behind her. The cabin lights dimmed. Dread spiked through me as I heard them lock the door up front, but the feeling quickly passed, as if a light sedative had been introduced into the ventilation system. Outside, a marshaller in a toque and reflective vest made what looked like the sign of the cross, directing us over to a row of yellow trucks that stood waiting, like pallbearers on the edge of a snowy field. One detached from the group, lifting an operator in an enclosed basket to the level of my window. Nozzles stroked the wing, swabbing it, as one swabs a vein prior to an injection. The operator met my eye and looked away.
Once the wings had been de-iced, the yellow truck retreated to a respectful distance, and the plane began to taxi again, guided by a single track of lights that stretched out as far as I could see. Finally, we came to a stop, and there was a drawn-out moment of stillness. I felt like I should lower my head and pray. The engine noise swelled to a deafening pitch. Then we were moving again, with purpose, rapidly picking up speed, the clouds rushing towards us in a dark flood. I gripped my armrests, waiting for the moment when the wheels left the ground, but it happened in one seamless breath. The plane rose quickly, as if untethered from the world, the city briefly rendered in miniature beneath us until we passed, shuddering through the clouds. The upper element was jarringly serene. From above, the clouds appeared solid, as if we might land on them. A band of pink flared at the western horizon, signalling the arrival of dusk. I took out my smartphone and stared at its blank face for a moment, the battery dead. The red-haired flight attendant failed to reappear. I put my phone away and looked up and down the aisle, unable to see any of my fellow passengers.
A soft chime sounded as the captain activated the intercom, allowing a prolonged hissing silence to gather. I had the sense of being judged, the whole of my life held up on a little strip of tape. Out the window, a single bird skimmed the roof of the clouds. The stars began to reveal themselves. Still the captain did not speak. The silence went on and on—a maddening, baffling blankness onto which I could have projected any number of feelings: boredom, amusement, pity, disgust.
Even love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the Saskatchewan Arts board for their support with this project. Thank you to everyone at Freehand Books, and especially Deborah Willis for thinking of me. Thanks to Sarah Feldman for her early work on the manuscript, and to Rosemary Nixon for her incisive line editing. Thank you to Grandma K. for her babysitting services and to Pearl Z. for her generosity. Finally, thank you to my children and my wife Rebecca, without whom I would be lost.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Devin Krukoff’s previous novels, Compensation and Flyways, were shortlisted for multiple Saskatchewan Book Awards. He is a past winner of the M&S Journey Prize for short fiction. He lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, with his family.
COPYRIGHT
© Devin Krukoff 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical – including photocopying, recording, taping, or through the use of information storage and retrieval systems – without prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright), One Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON, Canada, M5E 1E5.
Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Alberta Media Fund.
Freehand Books
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Calgary, Alberta T2P 1N3
Book orders: LitDistCo
8300 Lawson Road Milton, Ontario L9T 0A4
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Krukoff, Devin, 1976-, author
Hummingbird / Devin Krukoff.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-988298-37-5 (softcover).–ISBN 978-1-988298-38-2 (EPUB).–ISBN 978-1-988298-39-9 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8621.R79H86 2018 C813’.6 C2018-902947-1
C2018-902948-X
Edited by Rosemary Nixon
Book design by Grace Cheong
Printed on FSC® recycled paper and bound in Canada by Houghton Boston