Creeps (13 page)

“I liked yesterday better,” Les says.

Mr. Rollie smiles. “Note well taken, Mr. Faulkner, but let's not try to set anything in stone just yet.”

Suddenly Julie sweeps in from the wings like a Broadway veteran. “Sorry for interrupting, but are we about done for today?”

“Another skirt at the shopping centre, Miss Snow?”

“No,” Julie says, bringing a few fingers to her throat. “It's just that I'm beginning to feel vocal strain and I'd rather not push it.”

Paul Stool, lying on a mat near stage left, laughs.

Les says, “But we haven't even gotten to your scenes yet.”

“Well, if you could get
yours
right,” says Julie.

Les recoils like he's just been slapped.
“Excuse me?”

“That's enough, you two,” Mr. Rollie says. Then to Julie, “Sometimes I question your commitment, Miss Snow.”

Julie takes centre stage and puts on a little production of her own. “I'm
totally
committed,” she says, and with interlaced hands over her heart, goes, “Nothing's better than being onstage.” For the finale, she says, “I even plan on taking courses when I go to university.” She nearly curtsies.

No one says anything. Les shoots her a look as if to say,
You'll never make it in showbiz,
and Julie shoots Les a look back as if to say,
You're not all that, buddy.
Then Mr. Rollie tells everyone to go home and to get lots of sleep because tomorrow will be a stumble-through of the first half of the play.

Julie sprints off as if there were a mirror in the distance she could admire herself in, while Les, his nose inclined towards the hanging lights, slips away like a jilted lover. Everyone else filters out like factory workers.

Mr. Rollie throws his script into his briefcase and puts on galoshes and says he can't stay because Adrian's cooking lamb with those adorable baby potatoes and something delicious for dessert that Mr. Rollie suspects is crème brÛlée, and he's yet to pick up wine … something Australian, although Chilean will suffice, then he scurries onto the stage like a teenager, saying “See you both tomorrow” before exiting into the wings.

Just the two of them now: Marjorie sitting cross-legged in the centre of the stage, Wayne near the back, hands in pockets.

Neither speaks for a long time.

Finally, Marjorie says, “Adrian's not a she.” Wayne doesn't say anything.

“You knew that, I suppose?”

He nods.

“Someone slashed Mr. Rollie's tires once.”

“Really?”

“You didn't know?”

Wayne shakes his head.

“You really do miss a lot, dontcha, Wayne Pumphrey?”

“I don't know. I guess.”

“Maybe we're not as alone as we thought,” Marjorie says.

Silence.

“Hey, Wayne Pumphrey, how much spit's in Les's hair, you think?”

“Don't know … a Dominion bag full?”

“No, more—a pillowcase.”

Wayne walks towards her and licks his fingers and smooths his hair.
“‘She's sabotaging my performance
.
'”

“‘I've been in drama since I was six!'”
Marjorie says. Then, pretending to shield his eyes from the glaring stage lights, Wayne says,
“‘That's why you're not in this production, Pumphrey: you know nothing about acting!'”

Marjorie lies on her back and laughs and Wayne laughs with her. Afterwards she sits up and plays with the electrical tape on the toe of her sneaker.

Wayne scans the gymnasium like he's lost something.

Finally, Marjorie says, “You didn't nag me about my sneakers this morning.”

Wayne looks at her.

“I nearly fell in the parking lot and you didn't say a word.”

He says nothing.

“Then I go to mention it, but you look like you're someplace else and I wondered what you were thinking about because normally you notice everything I do.”

Wayne looks away again just as the door opens, and it's Mr. Ricketts, the janitor, and he wants to know who's there because he's got mopping to do.

“It's Wayne and Marjorie,” says Wayne.

Mr. Ricketts steps forward and peers over the rim of his bifocals. “It's nearly suppertime.”

“We were rehearsing,” Marjorie says.

“We just finished,” says Wayne.

Mr. Ricketts reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a hanky and dabs at his eyes because he has this condition that causes them to leak. “Well, I'd like to mop in private if you don't mind. That's all I need: to miss a spot and have you tattling to the school board and they're just looking for a reason anyway, so then where will I be?”

Wayne looks at Marjorie, then back at the janitor. “We were just leaving.”

“Who's there the minute a light bulb is blown, eh? Or when a john overflows because some wise
guy thinks it's funny to try stuffing as much toilet paper in there as possible? Me: that's who.”

Marjorie stands up and walks stage left and down the stairs and joins Wayne.

“Thirty-odd years I've given 'em, and now these
youngsters
on the school board—because that's what they are,
youngsters
, not much older than yourselves—are telling me it's time to have a rest. So I say: ‘I'll rest soon enough! Don't need any help from the likes of you!'” He dabs at his eyes again and puts the hanky away and says, “Going to be good this year? The play?”

“Best yet,” Wayne says. “Now that we have her.”

“Who's her?”

Wayne points. “Marjorie.”

The janitor nods.

“Better than the Hollywood crowd, she is.”

“Is she?”

“We'll make the local drama festival for sure, and if we win we'll get to go to St. John's for the provincials.”

“Couldn't be worse than last year's,” Mr. Ricketts says. “Daphne was slumped over in her chair and I thought she was dead, but she was only sleeping. ‘On account of the play,' she said. That and the young one forever running spit through his hair.”

“Les,” Wayne says.

“Huh?”

“Les Faulkner: the one at his hair.”

“Oh. He wouldn't be half bad either if he could keep his hands at his sides or in his pockets or something, not that I'm an expert or anything.” He pauses and turns and says over his shoulder, “I'm going to get the mop now, so be gone when I get back, 'cause heaven forbid I miss a spot.” He pulls open the door. “I should have them youngsters spend a day with Daphne and see how
they
like it.” He leaves, but his voice can be heard trailing off in the hallway. “Drive anyone to an early grave that woman would.”

Marjorie and Wayne listen to the old janitor's footsteps recede down the corridor. After a while Marjorie takes a step closer to Wayne and says, “You like this planet, Wayne Pumphrey?”

He tries to answer but is suddenly conscious of their proximity, that were he to jut his head forward and stick out his tongue he might be able to taste the flavour of her flannel shirt or catch a whiff of her body wash or soap or whatever it is she uses.

“Wayne Pumphrey?”

“Hmm?”

“I'm waiting.”

“I know, and my answer's yes.” Then, “You?”

She crosses her ankles and puts her hands in her back pockets and flicks her bangs out of her eyes and says, “Can take it or leave it.”

“Yeah, me too: take it or leave it.”

“It's too late to change your answer.”

“Well, it's a bit of an odd question, don't you think? I mean, what choice do we have?”

She says nothing.

Wayne looks past her shoulder at the floor-to-ceiling mural designed by last year's graduating class, standing on the edge of tomorrow in letters as tall as himself. Beneath the writing is a group of graduates, diplomas in hand and wind in their hair, and there's a huge sun and a clear sky filled with birds, and the graduates are standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down upon a bustling city and it occurs to Wayne that they're not really looking forward to the future so much as dreading it. In fact their smiles look more like winces, their wide, hopeful eyes belying the fear underneath, their erect backs and young knees readying themselves for the leap over and downwards onto the gridlocked parkway. Mashed and crumpled and twisted because what now?

Marjorie's talking to him.

“What?” he says.

“You're different, I said.”

“Different how?”

“More serious.”

He says nothing.

They collect their things and start for the door.

“Wanna come to Woolworths?” Wayne says.

“What for?”

“Every Tuesday Mom gives me free fries with gravy and Pepsi in a tall glass, and I could share with you.” He holds the door for her. She walks past him.

In the hallway, she says, “They have swivel stools, don't they?”

“Can spin around all you like.”

Marjorie nods. “Okay then.”

TWO

Wayne's mother puts a basket of fries down between them (the gravy on the side as per Marjorie's request) and two Pepsis full of ice and lime wedges and with bendable, candy cane–coloured straws. She steps back and watches, hands on her hips, hairnet, Woolworths uniform, apron, and name tag.

“A lot of fries here, Mrs. Pumphrey,” Marjorie says.

She smiles. Juts her chin in Wayne's direction. “Isn't every day he brings someone to share them with.”

Wayne adjusts his straw and takes a sip.

A fat man in a toque and parka comes and sits on a stool at the far end of the counter. Rubs and then blows into cupped hands. “Cold front moving in,” he says to no one in particular.

“When isn't there one moving in?” Wayne's mom says.

He laughs and his shoulders bounce and everything on the counter shakes.

“I suppose you'd like coffee?”

“I'd like a
pot
.”

Wayne's mother nods. “Be right there.” She turns back to Marjorie. “Wayne says you're the best actress.”

Marjorie shrugs and dunks a fry in the gravy and takes a bite.

“She's better than the Hollywood crowd,” Wayne says.

“Yes, that's exactly what he's been saying: that you're better than all them in Hollywood.”

Marjorie's redder than the ketchup. “Well, Wayne's a very good assistant director.”

“Is he?”

“Mm-hm. Always jotting away in his notebook.”

Wayne's mom looks at him. “He's like that at home. Hunched over his desk writing God knows what.”

The fat man coughs and takes off his toque. Unzips his jacket and glances over.

Wayne's mother holds up a finger and says, “One sec,” then steps forward and leans across the counter so that her face is close to Marjorie's. When she speaks her voice is a whisper. “How's your mom?”

Before Marjorie can answer, Wayne goes, “She'll know to make the beef chunks smaller from now on.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Pumphrey. She's fine.”

Wayne's mom wipes her hands on her apron. “That's good.” She heads over to the coffee pot. “Better not see one fry left over.”

“You won't,” Wayne says.

She takes the pot over to the man and he thanks her and says again how a cold front's moving in.

Wayne dunks two fries into the ketchup, then into the gravy, finishing them off in one bite. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

The fat man wants a cheeseburger with extra cheese and extra bacon. Onion rings instead of fries. Extra onion rings. He'll pay the difference.

Wayne's mom goes through the swinging doors.

Marjorie says, “It wasn't the beef chunks.”

Wayne lets go of his Pepsi and looks at her and waits for ages.

Finally, she says, “Her nerves. Thought she was dying.” Marjorie grabs the counter and starts swivelling to the right, then left, and back again.

The fat man adds spoonful after spoonful of sugar to his coffee and enough cream to fill a pastry. His bulk hangs out over the edges of his stool as he stirs and sips, then adds another sugar packet and stirs and sips again.

Wayne says, “How can nerves kill you?”

Marjorie does two complete spins, raising her hands in the air like she's on a merry-go-round, then stops herself and says, “You'd be surprised. I think it's like being depressed.”

Wayne stares at his Pepsi for a long time. At last, he says, “Are your nerves bad, too?”

“Don't know. Maybe.”

Quiet again except for the fat man's breathing.

A voice over the intercom: “Price check in aisle four.”

Wayne fiddles with his straw, then dunks a fry. Keeps dunking it.

Marjorie says, “Trying to drown it?”

He lets go and watches the fry disappear beneath the gravy.

Then his mom appears with two plates. One holds the burger, the other the onion rings. She puts them down in front of the man. “Looks great,” he says. “Enjoy,” she says back, before disappearing again into the kitchen.

The fat man stuffs onion rings into his mouth and then lifts up his burger bun and grabs the bacon and chews that too, but now he's put too much in his gob and he's choking, so he spits into his napkin and balls it up and rests it beside his plate and then gulps coffee.

Wayne says, “Keep finding these notes … in my
schoolbag, on my desk, my locker. Sometimes I'm in the washroom and there's a note on my back that I didn't know was there. Always the same message:
PAYBACKS COMING PUMPHREY!
There's never an apostrophe and it's always in capitals. He follows me home, too, and he gives me these looks, but they're different, so I can't tell what he's thinking—”

“Price check in aisle four,” goes the voice again. “My God, Blanche, will you come to
bloody
aisle four
already
!”