Candid Sun

The can hisses. The pull tab won’t work if you hesitate; the makers made surety a barrier for everyone’s own good. You had to want it to have it, and there weren’t many who didn’t want this. The makers made sure of that too.

The hissing falters. In the hush, blaze snaps into existence. The living room begins anew, this time warm and bright.

“Ah,” Mari exhales.

Beside her, Neil’s hands stretch towards the light.

“That’s the stuff,” he says, satisfied. Then, “How long’s this one?”

“Long enough to cook you.” She touches his shoulder. “Stand back some.”

~

Two hours later, their sun expires.

One moment summer’s succor is there, and the next it’s gone.

They don’t keep but one Full-Round—a daylong can with dedicated rising and setting mechanisms—in the kitchen, and that’s for emergencies only.

~

When they were kids, their father sat them on the edge of the bed that Mari and Neil sometimes shared and handed them a pair of sunglasses each.

“Well,” he said, grinning, “Put ’em on.”

Then he presented them with something unrecognizable. It reminded Mari of the fire extinguisher in her classroom at school, only it didn’t have a hose or handle and was the color
of an old-time candlestick.

Their father was struggling to keep it—and himself—still. He had a condition.

Neil had offered to help.

For it: “Just sit there and be quiet. How’s that, son? Can you do that for me?”

“I’m just trying to—”

The thing went off hissing. Its top split open, unfurling into quartered petals.

Something inside wanted out.

Mari shrank back. Neil crept closer. Their father laughed, amused as ever by their being so night and day. He offered no explanation or assurance. Their shock was as good as their joy
and once he had it he was free to ignore them again.

He lay on his back, the not-extinguisher nested in the stronghold of his armpit, and went completely still, transfixed by the light.

~

In the winter there’s an excuse to open the cupboard and look at it.

It’s cold and dark where they live. Sheer willpower, not discipline, is what gets Mari out of bed in the morning.

The pipes are frozen. A napkin wetted with her spit does the work of cleaning around her mouth and eyes. There’s no man in her life to tell her that she stinks or could do with a little lipstick, just Neil and his jokes.

“Holy shit, there’s a bear in the kitchen!” He shrieks, rounding the corner. “False alarm, Mar. Just you.”

His eyes drop past her knees to the open cupboard. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” she says, shutting it. “Fuckin’ cold, isn’t it?”

He wiggles his fingers at her. They’re fuzzy, neon orange. “Why d’you think I got my gloves on in the house?”

~

They don’t need her at work. They call an hour before her alarm goes off and tell her not to come in, not to chance it because so-and-so got caught in a whiteout and is in the breakroom crying about what would have happened to her kids if she hadn’t made it.

Mari doesn’t want to be around people anyway. She knows how she looks. The pipes are still out, but there’s no stay on mirrors. Her reflection is ashen. Her lips are cracked and bleeding. She’s moody and her mind is foggy.

It’s been too long since she last saw the sun, real or canned, but that’s the reality of her home. There’s no fanfare for living through it; the prize for surviving is survival. It’s been that
way for generations.

~

Mari fears dying. It rouses her from bed shivering and steers her towards the kitchen in the middle of the night. Her fingers are numb. They catch on nothing when she reaches inside. Impossibly, the Full-Round is gone.

~

…puts the art in artificial sunlight!
The commercial ends with a family of four gathered by a lake, a brassy canister bobbing gently in the water before them, playing a radiant sunset from its unsubmerged end.

The radio version plays a jingle here instead:

Fire keeps you warm,
lightbulbs give you light,
but Canned Sun by Candid Sun gets both done just right!

That’s why they sell so well in the tundra. That, and nothing hidden in the fine print.

~

When Mari opens the door, Neil’s wearing a balaclava and goggles but she knows it’s him. Can tell by his dropped shoulder—prominent in boyhood, prominent now. His mirrored lenses throw her frown back at her.

She says, “Where’s your key?” Not, “Where have you been? It’s been days.” Not, “What kind of bastard leaves his sister to die?”

She stands back to let him in, watches him walk right into the coffee table their father made when he was still useful. A table that hasn’t moved in nearly 30 years.

Neil throws his arms out for balance, laughing.

“You’re soaked,” she says, watching him drip onto the carpet.

“Here, give me your jacket.”

“No,” he replies, voice muffled. “Can’t stay. Only came by to drop this off.”

Even before he gives it to her she knows what it must be.

“Here,” he says. “You look like you need it.”

She asks, “Where’d you get this?”

“Some guy at work had a spare.” He’s already reaching for the door. Missing. Reaching again.

“A spare?” No such thing. “Since when do people like us have spare sun lyin’ around?”

He sucks his teeth. It draws the mask tight over his lips. “I was just trying to help.”

Then he’s taken it from her and marched back out into the snow.

~

Mari’s body celebrates summer. Her bones thaw and her muscles twinge delightedly.

Suddenly there’s energy to cook, masturbate, laugh.

She’s singing, setting things aside for storage when the front door swings open.

She hasn’t seen Neil in months.


“Hey!” He calls out, standing on the threshold, sporting sunglasses. “You there?”

The sun’s at his back and he’s looking right at her.

---

Jenna Lyles has returned to publishing after a yearslong hiatus. You can find out more about her and her past publications at Jennalyles.com.