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Helen Klonaris

Cowboy

The first Saturday Mr. Lebreton came to work in our backyard I was in my room looking at a catalogue picture of the woodcraft construction kit my father said I couldn’t have because I was a girl. With the kit I could build four miniature wooden houses, and I thought I could sell them to tourists and make a profit. My father said I had a good head for business, but girls didn’t do that kind of work. Still, I wasn’t giving up.

I don’t know what made me notice Mr. Lebreton; maybe the fact that he was so tall he had to duck to cross the porch. Or, maybe you always remember what was there in front of your eyes in the moment you felt a certain longing. How the person — tall, lanky, brown skin — became confused with the feeling of wanting what you couldn’t have. I sat at the foot of my bed biting my thumb nail and imagined hammering wooden walls together, pitching the tiny roof, adding a border of picket fencing, and then painting each house in colours I thought tourists would like: turquoise like the sea, yellow like the sun, all the little fences white like every picket fence I had ever seen. I imagined my father would forget I was a girl and be proud of me instead; I felt if I couldn’t have that kit, I would never really know myself. And then I looked up. Through my bedroom window I saw Mr. Lebreton crossing the porch, something hesitant and gentle in his stride as he followed my father into the backyard. I had never paid much attention to the garden before. But now I wanted to be in it too. I left the catalogue lying on my bed and went to lean against the white porch banister.