Red Girl Rat Boy (6 page)

N

“Hello.”

“Oh Joyce you’re back early from your convention?”

“No.”

“Oh, I was just going to leave a message, say Hi to you and Stanley, but if? Could I? It’s years since I’ve seen him?”

Looking at the sofa where her boy snored, such a beautiful baby he’d been, Joyce ground her teeth.

Shortly she phoned her brother, who was about to record a program on the later pre-Raphaelites. “Just like her to sneak up on me.”

“Why’d you answer the phone?” Why did he?

“Because it’ll be the college or the shrink or the group-therapy guy about something Stanley’s done, hasn’t done, correction, I should
make
him do. Or my unit manager, asking what day it is. I have to. You know that.”

“I’ve told you I’d stay with Stanley for a bit, give you a break.”

“I hardly even play golf. You know that too.”

“Are you going to take care of him your whole life?”

Ronald hadn’t intended to ask that. Had Joyce even heard? His phone didn’t ring angrily.

Without stopping, Sadie went by to her food dish.

He reached for the remote.

N

Sadie sniffed the guest’s shoes.
Ronald nearly said, “She can be shy,” when the tail began to wag.

“Oh, what a sweetie!” Sadie permitted ear-pulls, followed Olivia to the living room and sat nearby.

“Such a view! So misty by the Lagoon, the trees half gone? Like those Asian scroll things, you know?”

He brought in coffee.

“So fresh! Lovely. I loved that lunch, Ronald, didn’t you? I’m glad to see you alone, though.” She sipped. “I need to say, about my mistake? I tried to make your brother happy.”

Alarmed, he pushed the biscotti towards her.

“Alan did love me, at first anyway, and I just thought
Here’s this wonderful man but he’s so sad. I’ll change that!
Impossible.” Her silver hair hung like a bell. “You can’t make someone anything.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Your family, so intellectual. The dictionary at the dinner table? On and on about poems? Analyzing. Alan hadn’t ever seen real movies, just those Bergman things? He didn’t know how to have fun.”

“Joyce isn’t intellectual.”

“No, I was so surprised when she and Harris got married? He didn’t play golf or tennis or anything. Brave, both of them. But I talked to your mum before she died? Well of course before, that’s the sort of thing Alan got mad at me for. She understood. She thought I should leave him.”

Sadie nosed Olivia’s knee.

“Is this okay for her?” She held the smallest biscotto.

Instead Ronald opened a drawer in the coffee table to get Sadie’s treats. The dog gave an offended look but delicately nipped the tidbit from Olivia’s fingers and flung it up in the air, to catch.

“Clever girl!”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Can’t we go on now, the weather, her impressions of a changed Vancouver, anything?

“Instead Alan left me. That’s why Albuquerque. He wanted a fresh start, you know? Then the crash? Oh, I felt
so bad.”

“He always drove too fast.”

“I even wondered, suicide?” Olivia shook her bell as if surprised at herself. By her feet Sadie lay couchant, guardian.

Ronald did not say that he believed Alan had had far too high an opinion of himself to deprive the world of his presence.

“When I met Thomas,” tenderly, “he helped me. Contacted the police, troopers, whatever they have in New Mexico. No problem, oh that reminds me, flowers for Joyce of course but Stanley? Does he like movies?”

“What did the authorities say?”

“Oh, they had photocopies,
the officer attending?
It wasn’t all Alan’s fault. The point is, we can’t
be
for another person?”

Sadie rested her head on Olivia’s ankle.

“Japanese. Maybe martial arts.”

Guessing thus made Ronald dizzy. He’d never carried flowers to Joyce, nor invited Stanley to a theatre, nor assessed Harris’s character. He and his sister, after their brother’s death, had pursued no inquiries.

“Don’t you just love sushi, except the eels? Fascinating! But I must go, Ronald. The booth, Thomas.”

Later he discovered her glove in the hall. Such small hands.

Heavy rain began.

After half an hour in the park, man and dog were soaking, but Sadie still yanked at her leash, determined to revisit the shrubbery where that scuffle had occurred. Leaves and branches resisted Ronald. When he got through, Sadie was inspecting a rat. She looked up, proved right. The animal’s eyes were gone, its stomach and haunches torn. The fur inside its ears looked soft.

At home, Ronald towelled the dog off, dried his own hair and put on his dressing gown. “Nap-time, Sadie.”

But at the heron he turned the other way, to his computer.

The trade show’s website sparkled with the colours of cocktail stirrers, name tags, matchbooks (who still uses those?), iPhone cases, napkins, swags of ribbon. Among the exhibitors was
Olivia’s Greetings.
Each card bore her printed signature, the handwriting legible if not distinctive. So many festivities to grace each month and year, so many special birthdays.

On the way to his nap, he remembered that his parents, especially his mother, had been very fond of Louisa.

N

“
Oh Joyce, you look well!” Olivia came in
. “Your place is exactly how I remember it!”

“Why wouldn’t it be? There’s no money to renovate.”

“For you.”

Joyce took the blue irises. “You want coffee or something?”

The two women gazed at Stanley on the living room sofa. Silent, the Weather Channel showed a blizzard moving from the American Midwest towards the eastern seaboard, as far north as Nova Scotia.

Joyce went over to turn off the TV. “Sometimes that does it. Sit up, son.” He stirred, releasing unwashed-body odour, stretched and closed his eyes.

His mother returned to the kitchen area.

“So much like Alan, amazing!”

“Stanley’s father never liked hearing that. Made him feel quote invisible.” Joyce shook instant into mugs, touched the kettle, made an
It’ll do
face, poured. “Powdered’s here. Sugar.”

With her drink, Olivia moved towards Stanley.

Joyce found an old mayo jar and ran water. As she stuffed the irises in, one fell. She bent to retrieve it. Deep in each petal’s throat ran an irregular golden streak.

A knock at the door.

“Always something.” Joyce went. “Oh no, not again!”

Some minutes later she walked back into the apartment saying, “Some people never learn. They get told and told but it doesn’t sink in.”

Murmurs came from the sofa, then Stanley laughed.

Joyce reached the living room area just as Olivia, giggling, set a pile of DVDs on Stanley’s stomach. He started reading the cover copy on one as Joyce grabbed another.

“Cartoons, little girls, what the hell, Olivia? D’you think time stands still?”

“Miyazaki, Joyce! Lovely stories. The animals only look scary? And all the kids get brave.”

Reading, grinning, Stanley rose. He snatched the DVD from his mother and went to his room. Joyce took a few steps after him, stopped.

When she turned, Olivia was gathering up her things.

“I’d better go? Thank you, Joyce.” She put her coffee mug on the kitchen counter. It was empty, her hostess saw, except for some milky goo at the bottom.

To watch Olivia disappear, Joyce picked up the irises again and carried them over to the window, where she set the jar on the sill.

At first the sister-in-law moved slowly along the sidewalk, several times raising her face to feel the raindrops. Then she speeded up, but not to the corner where the taxis shot by in yellow blurts. Instead she darted under the red awning of a restaurant, Italian, fancy, newly opened.

Joyce hesitated.

Hesitated.

Thrashed into her old winter coat and left the apartment.

N

Ronald became aware of Sadie
in the living room. Not napping. Slobbering. At her crate, he knelt to peer and feel inside.

Grrr.

His hand met Olivia’s glove. Her favour was damp, the leather pocked by teeth. He held on to it, held against Sadie’s pull. Growling again, the dog let go and withdrew to the rear of her private space, where she lay down with her back to him.

Ronald too lay down, curled on the silk carpet purchased in Istanbul on his last sabbatical.

Why had he never invited Joyce out for a really good Italian dinner? He held his knees and tried to control his breathing, urgent, wildish. Was Harris still extant? Did Stanley ever see his dad? Why had Ronald himself so rarely visited his own (demented) father?

Olivia had sent the old man cards, which he saved. After his death, Joyce got cross because their mother wouldn’t throw them out right away. But now they weren’t children any more, not rivalrous children to say
Serve you right
when a playmate tears her knee, when a brother dies.

“Louisa,” he sobbed, “darling Louisa.”

Sadie emerged to stand by Ronald. She sniffed at his crotch and then his ear, licked his wet cheek. He gave her the glove.

 

 

 

 

 

Care

 

 

On Thursday evening

The Boss Lady in her tailored suit knelt before Bed 2's
assigned closet and scuffed things off its floor as a dog scuffs up dirt, backwards. Out shot gauze rolls, bottles of body wash, packs of Depends, the Rec Director's clicker for locked wards, sunglasses, a pashmina, jigsaw bits.

Bed 2's occupant, The Wanderer, wasn't around.

In Bed 1 lay silent Teevee-gal, unpicking her sheet's hem while staring at a dark screen. Her remote was out of reach.

The Boss Lady tossed Tim Hortons cups, lipsticks, grumpy-baby photos, tiny flags, a driver's license, Tylenol, lumps of hard porridge, a blue folder, shampoo.

Grabbing that folder, she rose, and did not stop to wipe the angry tears but strode towards the door of 17-B where small brown care aides and LPNs clustered.

“You idiots didn't notice this garbage? Clean it up. That woman must go.”

Stilettos carried the Boss Lady away.

The Wanderer just then was at work on a cash machine in the care home's basement. Once she'd jammed it. Not tonight, but the deposit envelopes went into her wheelchair's basket, and in the caf she scored a Danish and a banana before
Hey you!
sounded. Quickly she
whir-whirred
to the hall by the service elevator used to excrete corpses, dirty dishes, waste. She ate, waiting till she figured the care aides had finished with all the others and would be too tired to fuss.

She tossed the peel onto the floor.

 

How Friday began for Sally, Lorraine, Annabel

All night the summer air had wafted into 17-A, sweet air, for the dumpsters below the window held only a day's load, yet unable fully to refresh the room. By the big containers a coyote sidled, sniffing, while raccoons waddled across the parking lot towards their tree-homes. Birds conversed.

The old white women lay quiet.

One was having a bowel movement.

One thought again,
The aides could just heave me out that window when I die.

The third dreamed of a boy in a photo album.

Soon crows began to curse. Phones rang, trolleys clunked, and old Mr. Chang traversed the floor at a rate of six round trips per hour.

Pushing a trolley bearing sanitizer, tissues, lotions, wipes, Lily arrived in 17-A. Snapped on fluorescents, clashed curtain-rings, poked the nearest resident.

“Turn over, Sally.”

“Mrs. Knox to you, fucking clumsy! Watch my jigsaw.”

Sally's bloated body didn't resist, though, and her shit (the workday's first stink) was neatly formed. In a fresh diaper, the resident snoozed again.

Lorraine assessed Lily's steps for irritability.

“Good morning!”

“Everything late already.” The aide jabbed a button. Lorraine's bed angled up, pinching her spine. “No fun for you today. Transfusion.”

“Please, save my menus?”

Lily yanked Lorraine's bedside drawer open, flapped at the sheets of
Creamy Veg Potage, Garden Pasta, Vanilla Delight.
“Too many already.”

“Please?”

“You, you wait for Transfer.” She crossed to the third resident's bed. “No games today, Annabel. Behave! Or Boss Lady throw you out too.”

“Who
too
?”

“Wanderer.”

Annabel gaped.

Lorraine managed, “Where on earth could she go?”

Annabel kicked the aide, whose cry woke Sally.

Then Lily wrangled the flailing Annabel into her wheelchair. The resident scooted to the toilet, pulling herself by banging her heels, scooted back. Next her nightie got dragged off, underpants and camisole on, while she struggled, giggling. Resisted arms into blouse. Undid her skirt's Velcro.

“Score!”

Lily bent close, whispered. “Your brother, he's wait for you.” Closer. “Take you out, breakfast treat, Canada Day!”

“Eric's here?”

“Dining room.”

Annabel grabbed the Velcro.

“Stupid!” Sally.

“Don't believe her!” Lorraine.

Ninety-five pounds and years, her hair a thick silver crown, Annabel scooted out, her heels so keratinous they sounded
tak-tak-tak.

Across the hall, a TV blared.
In the criminal justice system the people are represented by two separate, but equally important, groups: the police, who. . .

Whir whir,
the Wanderer's chair.

Clack clack of stilettos. “Hey you! Thief,
and
dangerous driver. You've been expelled before. Don't think it can't happen here.”

Then to Teevee-gal, shouting, “I said,
Keep the volume down!”

Next across the hall to 17-A, shoving at Lily's trolley. “How many times have I told you,
Don't leave supplies by an open door!”
She brandished a litre of surface cleanser, ivory in her black hand. “Do you speak English?”

Stone-faced, Lily exited 17-A and waited for Josie, another aide, to accompany her into Mr. Chang's room. Its other resident, Big Man, attacked staff.

“Remember,” the Boss Lady told Sally and Lorraine, “these people keep you alive. I want no complaints.”

Transfer arrived.

 

Sally's busy morning

Maybe there'd be pancakes for breakfast?

Waiting. Calendar, meanwhile.

Always she ticked off the weekday Activities—Mon
Bingo
, Tues
News & Views,
Wed
Crafts,
Thurs
Flower Arranging
—not that she attended. I like to relax. By Fri
Baking
, no tick appeared. Thought so! Canada Day tomorrow. Can't fool me, Lily. Turning the page, she examined the photo of July fireworks at English Bay. Pretty. Was I there once?

Waiting, she fiddled with her sunflower jigsaw.

Whir whir
, an electric chair rolling in. That heavy old woman. Feet, gone. Face creased, a softening gourd.

“Not here, no. You live with Teevee-gal in 17-B. Bee bee bee!”

The Wanderer snatched at Van Gogh, wheeled to the window and threw a piece out, looked excitedly at Sally, threw another.

“Stop, I'll tell!”

The visitor U-turned and yanked the privacy curtain round Sally's bed.

“Pull that back!”

Invisibly the wheelchair departed. Sally rang her buzzer, rang. In time, hunger changed her priorities. “Where's my damn breakfast?”

With the cold food came extra Aunt Jemima.

As Sally ate, 17-B roared again.
The police who investigate crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their sto. . .

Sally watched the doorway. Who's got her remote this time? TV's all Teevee-gal has. I hate Lily. Why don't Melia or Josie tell her off? Roberto? She licked her plate.

Nap-time.

More waiting, jigsaw.

Moving pieces fruitlessly, Sally recalled again Lorraine's saying, “The others are younger. From the same island, same village even. They can't make her do a thing.”

To physio next, heavy on the walker, escorted by the aide.

En route, Boss Lady.

“Lily was mean to Annabel!”

“Lies. I've no time for this.”

Sally said to Lily five times, “I told on you! I did!”

So far. Then many exercises. Too many. So much bending. Knees sore. Back sore. Never a snack.

Back in 17-A at last, Sally said, “You've twisted this walker, Lily.”

“Ten times maintenance fix for you.”

“Fucking did not!”

Lily knocked Van Gogh bits off the table, took the mobility aid and left.

Sally couldn't find her picker-upper.

Chicken noodle, maybe? How can Annabel love that stupid brother? He never visits. Is he dead? Crackers. Apricot yogurt. One brownie, never ever two. Why'd she throw out my puzzle? Throw out Lily! The Boss Lady'd be so mad.

 

Annabel's explorations

Usually in the mornings Annabel scooted to visit friends. Not today. Alone in 17-A's corridor, she hunched in her chair, whimpering
Eric, Eric.
She thumbed an old
Canadian Living
, its cover a cake resplendent with piped cream. Dozed.

A nurse cruised by, to check on this resident's psoriasis.

Tired from weeping, Annabel slept again, even when Julio arrived. He came from Lily's island though not her village.
After dry-mopping 17-A for the thirty-seven seconds availed him by the institution's short-staffing, Julio dragged out the garbage bag swollen each and every day with plastic and paper opaque, clear, printed, stretchy, squashy, hard, infected, crackly, sticky, inky, fuzzy, torn, unused, wet, shit- or food- or coffee- or puke- or lipstick- or snot-stained, perfumed, precious; laden also with glass bottles, squeeze bottles, jars, tubes, tubs, ampoules, aerosols, Styrofoam and tins, empty, full, necessary, scorned. He missed the Van Gogh bits.

The sack scraped over the floor. Annabel's dreams dislimned, and as Mr. Chang wheeled by she woke. They smiled. Julio didn't.

What about lunch? Not dining-room, not after howling for Eric there, but yesterday she'd scored loonies from petty cash. So. Basement. Vending machines.

From 17-B the lawyers blared
Objection, your honour!

Withdrawn. My colleague would have you believe. . .

Lily emerged, with Teevee-gal's remote.

Annabel
tak-takked
after her, mouthing, “Tattletale! Ass-licker!”

The Wanderer, at the cash machine again, nodded.

Eating barbecue chips and a Mars bar, Annabel watched the nimble thick fingers till the Wanderer shrugged, quit.

“What's in your basket today?”

Under a ratty cardigan lay Windex, instant coffee, jelly beans, rolls of TP.

Annabel laughed. “Let's go!”

Smiling, the Wanderer unlocked a utility closet.

Their baskets soon loaded, the women wheeled to a washroom where they filled a toilet-tank to overflowing with bottles of Javex and Pine-Sol. Using packaged rags, they blocked the paper-towel feed. Although the tampon machine defeated them, they easily squirted out all the liquid soaps.

In the corridor again, they saw doctors approaching. The women stilled, heads sank to chests, eyelids drooped. Annabel's knees flopped apart. Her tongue protruded.

After the talking white-coats passed, she suggested, “Home now?” But the Wanderer rolled away, wet wheels hissing as she headed for Delivery.

Near the great door, Annabel slowed. She hadn't exited the building since ninety, but the Wanderer rolled right out.

No one there. Under a dumpster, a darting rat. Two. The women laughed at them, at the sun's warmth, the fresh air whose garbage tang included none of the chemicals used indoors to mask decay.

Now the Wanderer's heavy arms mimed throwing towards the dumpsters. Huge throws. Her body jerked, her footless legs waved.

“What?” Annabel turned back.

Sighing, the Wanderer re-entered.

On their floor, many residents were still at lunch.

In one room the Wanderer chose a watch with a green strap,
Vogue
, moisturizer, a BC Ferries ballpoint pen on which a tiny boat slid up and down. She mimed towards Annabel, who shook her head. A room emptied by death was different; she'd pick out jewellery, photos of grandsons. Treats for Eric, canned nuts, foot rub, jam.

Now the Wanderer's cardigan bulged. She looked about, intuiting, Annabel knew, today's right site. Keys bloated her fanny pack. Rumour said the Wanderer slept with it latched round her belly, gripped it even when bathed. The boiler room? That fat monster scared Annabel. No! Happily
tak-tak
followed
whir-whir
as the chairs sped past Mr. Chang, the nurses' station, dining area, kitchen, to the linen room with its towers of dry scalded sheets, face cloths, gowns, robes, towels, pads, pillowcases, coverlets, bibs.

In one wall, a square of steel. Annabel pulled the handle, and the Wanderer dumped her basket's contents down the chute.

 

Lorraine, doing time all day

Transfer was today embodied by Lily's second cousin Felipe, a.k.a. Hot Wheels.

Soon after he'd started at the care home, Big Man's picker-upper tripped him. The Boss Lady ordered X-rays, a union rep sympathized. Felipe was fine, but corridor 17 made him nervous. To be done with it, he came early. No breakfast didn't matter to Lorraine, yet his arrival typified time served in care: rush rush, or so slow that rage beckoned.