For dinner, we were breaking the rules with hot dogs and roasted marshmallows. Gregory gave each of the boys a long stick: “You’re doing the cooking tonight.” he said.
The boys looked at him blankly. Gregory showed them how to thread the hot dog on the stick to grill it. They caught on quickly and scarfed their meal like I’d never seen them do. Their faces sticky with ketchup and burnt sugar, the boys were radiant.
“Look, a beetle!” said Gregory suddenly.
The beetle had a big, black shell with a blue sheen. Its head and legs were lost in the pine needles that carpeted the ground. Gregory put his hand out flat and let it crawl slowly into his palm.
“You can touch him gently,” he said. “His back is hard, to protect him from predators.”
The twins barely glanced at the creature crawling toward Gregory’s wrist. Transferring it to his other hand, he then set the bug down on a stone, since the boys didn’t seem interested. The beetle stood still, shaking his antennae. Suddenly, with a quick, well-placed stomp, Daniil crushed the insect.
“Nooo!” I cried.
I pushed him brusquely, and he wobbled, taking a few steps back. With a crunch, the shell of the beetle had shattered, releasing a sticky brown liquid. Its head was still stuck to the sole of Daniil’s shoe, which he was trying to clean off by stamping his foot like a horse.
“Are you crazy?” I said.
“Come on, Emma,” said Gregory. “It’s just a beetle. He didn’t know.”
“He did it on purpose!”
I clenched my fists and dug my nails into my palms. It felt like something important had just happened, but everyone else had already turned their attention back to the crackling fire. Night was falling. I stopped talking. Gregory began trying to teach the boys campfire songs.
We camped for three days. I couldn’t stop thinking about the crushed beetle.
“Can you take the boys to get their hair cut today?” said Gregory as he finished his espresso.
After years of waiting, Dwell Magazine was finally going to include our house in its special issue on Canadian design. Lüke, a friend from the office, had gotten us the contract. The outside of our house wasn’t of interest to Americans, but they wanted to feature our interior design in their Small Spaces section. We couldn’t have hoped for better publicity. Gregory was over the moon; this was the key to the international market he’d been trying to break into for so long. He wanted everything to be perfect. I cocked my head and facetiously asked, “Do I look okay, or would you like me to go in and get a little Botox for the occasion?”
“You want to get Botox?” he said. “You know, Virginie got it, and you can’t even tell.”
“Then what good was it?” I muttered. But he didn’t hear. He wasn’t listening anyway.
“Take them to Blood & Bandages on College Street,” he said. “Ask for Miles. I’ll call and tell him how I want him to cut their hair.”
He paced the floor as he spoke. The world revolved around him. I hadn’t seen him so happy in a long time. He gave me a long kiss on the lips before leaving for work. When I turned around, the twins were watching from the bend in the staircase like sentinels. Their hair had grown out in the six months they had been here and looked much better than their military cuts from the orphanage. Their hair was fine, but thick, with a gentle wave. Daniil’s hair was more blond than his brother’s, while Vanya’s was more light brown. I hoped that Gregory hadn’t decided to give them another short cut. I looked at the time and decided to get going. We’d walk, rather than taking the stroller.
College Street had changed in recent years. A number of hip establishments had replaced the Portuguese bars and cheap clothing stores. LIT Espresso, Baby on the Hip, Ziggy’s at Home, and Bar Isabel had come out of the neighbourhood’s recent gentrification.
We took a right and headed toward Ossington Avenue. It was early and not many stores were open, but it was nice to do a little window shopping. It was already hot and the streets smelled like dog shit. The twins walked slowly, zig-zagging along the sidewalk. I had dressed them in simple shorts and T-shirts. It took us a solid half hour to cover the few metres to the salon.
Blood & Bandages looked like a typical hipster barbershop—reclaimed barn wood, black walls, vintage mirrors, and hunting trophies—but it also had magnificent Paidar barber chairs from the fifties, whose red leather had been meticulously maintained. Three young, tattooed, bearded barbers greeted us. The two other customers were dressed in the very same style.
“Hey, buddies!” said Miles, introducing himself to the boys with an extended hand. I realized, laughing to myself, that Gregory had the exact same haircut as his barber, whose hair was shaved on the sides and long on top, combed back.
“So we’re going to give you daddy’s haircut, boys?”
Gregory really had arranged everything in advance. I was relieved the boys would only be getting the sides trimmed.
It was decided that Daniil would go first. The barber put a board over the armrests of the chair to raise him up and attached a white paper
