Sweet Life (4 page)

It took a long time to diffuse the day’s tension, filled with small talk and the sympathetic comments from customers.

Mrs. Warner stopped in at Whyte’s Groceries often, rummaging through her coin purse and counting out change with stiff fingers. Invariably she bought something small like a pack of tea, a bag of marked down bread. “I still miss my Tony,” she told Angie one day, while blinking back nonexistent tears. “I know just how you feel.”

I feel like slapping your face.

After she drove home that day, Angie took a hot shower, donned heavy pyjamas and a hooded coat. She walked to the wooden zigzag of steps behind the house and descended the cliff where waves splashed over the thick stretches of black clams clinging to the boulders. A ghostly mist hung across the Juan de Fuca Strait, hiding the mountains of the mainland.

She needed an idea to sail out of that mist, an inkling of what could be better than standing on her feet in Ed Whyte’s store and having to endure sympathy from people like Mrs. Warner. She considered her finances and assets. She rejected the idea of renting out rooms. Now she was free to do as she pleased in the large house, she couldn’t have anyone around who might interfere. And then she thought of the garage.

On the garage’s outside was a stairway leading up to a small landing, and a door opening to a space that included a three-piece bath. Bert had expected to use the area as his office once the rooms in the house were taken over by his children. The children he didn’t get.

Angie hurried up the stairs and back to the house. Without stopping to remove her coat, she laid a sheet of wide paper onto the kitchen table and sketched the garage’s exterior, careful to include the gable over the upstairs window. She took another piece of paper and squared off rooms. There would be an eat-in kitchen, its window beneath the gable. Beyond would be a small living room, and a hallway leading to the bathroom and bedroom. On a smaller sheet of paper she wrote down numbers, and then read through ads in the rental section of the newspaper. She could make more money renting out an apartment than she could make working at the store.

~

The carpenter Angie hired to build the apartment
finished it by July. A week later, she ran the newspaper ad. “Near Sultan. One bedroom, furnished apartment over garage.”

She informed male callers that the apartment was taken. The couples she warded off by stressing its minuteness. She was more inventive with Mrs. Warner’s granddaughter, Codie, a girl dressed in black and a tangle of coloured beads. She waved at the curtains. “I can redecorate, right?”

Debra Arthur was the only person to comment on the needlework and added: “Isn’t it ridiculous how long doilies been out of style?”

A petite woman exuding confidence and energy, she was a nurse who worked at a care home in Victoria. She paid cash for her first month’s rent, explaining she hadn’t had time since moving to the island to set up an account. She looked so capable in her blue smock that Angie didn’t ask for a damage deposit.

The day after Debra signed a year’s lease, Angie gave two weeks’ notice to Ed Whyte while he stood next to a freezer, holding a wrapped chicken. “Leave now and I’ll pay out your two weeks.” He unconsciously jerked his arms as though encouraging the chicken to nip Angie.

Bernice demanded to know how her own sister could be this ungrateful. “How could you make such a huge decision without asking my advice? Michael works in construction and you didn’t ask him for help.”

Angie realized she had, just in time, thwarted Bernice’s attempts to wedge herself into the gap vacated by Bert. She had her apartment. She had her renter. And she’d done it all herself.

~

Angie began to imagine what the apartment looked like
with Debra Arthur’s own touches. Perhaps a ceramic fruit bowl on the table; books and magazines stacked in neat piles in the living room. There would be vials of cream, scented shampoo in the bathroom and, in the bedroom closet, smocks, casual pants and pretty blouses.

Angie could give herself a quick tour while Debra was at work, but she’d no idea of Debra’s work schedule. What if she forgot something, came back and caught Angie inside? Or got sick and came home early? Angie did make a point of looking in the yard for Debra’s grey mini-van, kept track of the times it was home, but after two weeks she still couldn’t determine Debra’s work schedule.

For September’s rent, Debra once again paid with cash. Angie held the front door while Debra leaned against it. “You know, you have the prettiest place around here. Would you give me a tour?”

Angie hesitated. Debra gestured to a picture of flowers on the wall. “I bet you embroidered this. You did, didn’t you?”

“That’s not embroidery; it’s cross-stitch. There’s a small one like it in the apartment.”

Debra’s eyes widened. “I love that picture.”

Angie let her in.

Upstairs, Debra trailed Angie through the bedrooms, commenting on the bedspread and the embroidered towels in the bathrooms. Downstairs, they stood at the glass patio doors. They led from the dining room to the deck and provided a clear view of the lawn flanked by roses and strawberries. At the end of the yard stretched a red arbutus and, beyond, a shiny reflection of ruffled clouds and sky.

Debra gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, I’d adore being able to sit here while I ate. Even if I was alone.”

“I eat in the kitchen. And I don’t mind being alone.” By “alone,” Debra must mean without a husband. Without a Bert. Afterwards, Angie couldn’t recall mentioning dinner, yet by the time Debra returned to the apartment, the arrangements had been made.

Angie had avoided shopping at Whyte’s Groceries, but now she pushed a cart through the store without remembering she used to work there, that she’d stood behind the till robotically repeating, “Have a nice day.”

An hour later when Angie returned home and passed the garage, she saw Debra’s van was gone. She parked her own car in its usual spot by the front door. While she rolled out biscuit dough and prepared a seafood casserole, she listened to rock music on the radio. While cutting roses for the centrepiece, she caught herself humming.

She showered and combed out her hair. Bert wouldn’t allow her to cut her hair, but, really, she could look into getting a new hairdo. She would ask Debra the name of her hairdresser. Maybe they could shop for clothes together. She buttoned a white cotton blouse, pulled on a long skirt that skimmed her insteps. Ready early, she fussed with the vase of roses on the dining room table and wondered if she started the casserole too soon. How humiliating if it dried out.

Debra announced her arrival by leaning on the doorbell. She wore a short black dress and cradled a bottle of wine in each arm. “Brought my babies.” From her shoulder swung a large purse.

She breezed into the dining room. “Wow, look at the pretty table.” She set the bottles onto it, pulled a corkscrew from her bag and waved it. “Necessities.” She uncorked both bottles then rubbed her hands together. “Don’t mind me. All we’re missing are the wine glasses. I’ll get them while you get the food,” she said, and flitted to the kitchen. “I’m always in a party mood.”

Angie, slipping on oven mitts, was both startled and pleased by Debra’s energy. She opened the cupboard under the sink and when Angie started to explain the glasses were on the other side of the room, Debra flapped her hands. “Don’t mind me; I’m one of those independent types. Supper sure smells yummy. Debra, you are one lucky girl, you’ve found yourself a wonderful landlady.”

Wonderful? Angie’s face grew warmer as she carried the casserole to the dining room and listened to Debra open and shut cupboard doors. When she at last swung into the room, she flourished two crystal goblets, poured red wine into each, dropped into a chair. A single, hoop earring swung against her neck as she lifted her glass. “A toast. To the start of a great friendship.”

To friendship. A friend. Angie lifted her glass. It would be easier to launch from the cliff’s edge than to admit she didn’t have a friend.

“And here’s to you, Brad, RIP. It was nice of him to leave you this big house.”

“He wasn’t being nice.” Why did Debra find that funny?

Debra found more of what she said funny, laughing throughout the meal until she poured the last of the red wine. “How come,” she said, “there aren’t any pictures of Brad around?”

“Bert’s gone.” Angie gazed through the patio doors where the first hint of dusk dappled the lawn beneath the arbutus. Now she slipped off her sandals to cool her feet on the hardwood floor.

Debra got up, grabbed the white wine and their glasses. “Let’s take our after-dinner drink to the living room.” She perched on the edge of the sofa, while Angie dropped onto the love seat. Debra got up, again. “I need the ladies.” And she left the room.

Angie sipped at the wine and closed her eyes. It was good to feel relaxed. From overhead came the creak of a floorboard; Debra must have forgotten about the main floor powder room. She soon returned and launched into a diatribe about her ex-husband, who lived in Prince George with their son. “I only get to see my son at Christmas and Easter. You wouldn’t believe what he’s put me through.”

“Bert never loved me.” Why had she said that?

Debra peered at her over her wine glass.

Words tumbled out before she could catch them. “He held me up to the light as though he could see right through me. But he didn’t know me. Didn’t even try.” Angie waved her glass, dribbling wine onto her lap. She dabbed at her skirt with two fingers. “Then he shoved me to the back of the closet.”

Debra reached across the space between them to refill Angie’s glass. “Men can be such shits.”

Angie heard a faraway roar, like a storm bearing down on the coast. Should she close all the windows? But there was no storm. The pines hung still, submitting calmly to the encroaching night.

~

Next morning, despite a mild headache,
Angie swung out of bed humming. She opened the blinds. Yes, there it was: Debra Arthur’s minivan.

Angie shucked her nightgown and made a lopsided pirouette in front of the mirror. When she caught sight of her unsteady bare flesh, she froze then grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans.

Her headache disappeared after breakfast and she decided to get at the spring-cleaning she had missed while overseeing the apartment’s construction. She opened the patio doors in the dining room, letting in a canting breeze from the Strait. While she worked, she waited for the phone or the doorbell to ring, as Debra had promised to invite her over.

She imagined dinner in the cosy kitchen. She’d be the one bringing wine and would present a bouquet of her own yellow roses.

She took the gardening tools from the shed and worked in the front yard, keeping an eye on the garage. First she pruned the roses then weeded the freesia. Although she took her time mowing the scrap of lawn between the house and the garage, she didn’t once catch sight of Debra Arthur.

Beneath the apartment, Bert’s tools hung along the garage walls, neatly arranged alphabetically because she hadn’t yet got to Item #15 on his list. She hadn’t realized how she’d been concentrating on listening for a sound until she heard the rev of an engine. By the time she made it outside, Debra’s mini-van was pulling onto the road and turning toward the highway.

~

The van didn’t return by morning.
Perhaps Debra was working an overtime shift. After three days, Angie imagined an accident and thought of calling all the hospitals. Then she had another, more terrible thought. What if someone had broken into the apartment, assaulted Debra, and then stolen her van? The poor woman could be lying on the floor, injured.

Angie hurried to the garage, climbed the stairs and knocked. She called Debra’s name and listened. Muted voices. When she tried the door, it was locked. She ran back to the house and grabbed a key from a hook in the kitchen. But when she returned, the key didn’t fit and for the first time, she saw an unpainted line where someone had replaced the original lockset.

She ducked inside the garage, searched Bert’s tools, not even knowing what she was looking for until she saw the crowbar. Back to the top of the stairs. She wedged the bar between the door and frame until the wood splintered. With a final shove, she was inside.

The stench of tobacco smoke. Empty liquor bottles on the table, on the counter, on the floor. Fast food containers, pizza crusts. Her foot bumped a beer bottle, sent it spinning into a mess of plastic bags. Why would her gold watch, Bert’s present on their wedding day, be on the table?

Angie followed the sound of subdued and panicked voices, watched citizens swarm over a drawbridge on the TV. A dirty track led across the carpet to a heap of men’s clothing.

She didn’t bother with the bathroom. She wanted the last room with its partially open door.

In the wan light, the dark silhouette of his shoulder curved above the bed, solid and daunting as the last time she’d seen him.

She opened the door wider and crept forward. She heard his deep breathing, heard it shift to a series of grunting snores. She’d told him not to come back. And all this time he’d been waiting to take over, again.

Tightening her grip, Angie lifted the crowbar higher.

Mrs.
Kravitz’s Mood

Mrs. Kravitz stands on her back steps
in her nightgown and robe, legs spread as though to keep her balance. She holds a cigarette to lips still pink from the lipstick she wore to the beauty school this morning. The grey curls of her newly permed hair clench her skull tight as carved stone.