No Call Too Small

by Oscar Martens

  —My girlfriend’s daughter is flowering into a woman.

  —You deflowered your girlfriend’s daughter?

  —No, she’s flowering into a woman.

  —Would you speak English please?

  —Womanhood is upon her.

  —What does that mean?

  —Please stop laughing.

  Having arranged our pickup, I can now concentrate fully on vomit-suppressing thoughts. It helps to look at Benni, sitting there as if we’re in a paddleboat on a bright, sunny day at the lake. Even Rick looks pale as he turns to warn us that once we’re out of the lee of Moresby, it’ll be a little rough, but only for the last few miles into Bedwell Harbour.

  The waves are farther apart and bigger, faster. On each crest the wind spikes, then lowers again as we drop. Probably just another day on the water for Rick. That shrieking sound? Normal. The pounding that seems to be loosening the rivets of this boat? All normal. I wonder if there’s a life raft. Of course there’s a life raft. Something really compact, something strong that would fit all of us. Naturally, it’s tucked inside the locker, along with the rest of the lifesaving gear. No need to ask. Because it’s about trust now, this boat, this kid. I’m trusting.

  —Is this normal?

  —Yes, this is normal for a strong gale.

  —Is there a life raft?

  Rick doesn’t turn around, so I’m not sure he heard me. He probably heard me. I suppose I could ask again. Celia will meet us at the dock, if and when we get there. Benni reaches over and tugs on the shoulder of my jacket.

  —How long are you going to be with my mother?

  The fire extinguisher comes loose from its bracket and barely misses Rick’s head.

  —That’s a strange question.

  The cribbage board leaps off the shelf, taking Rick’s thermos with it. I can hear the tinkle of broken glass inside as it rolls around the deck.

  —It would help if you could tell me. Over three months? A year or two?

  —Can we talk about this later?

  IS OUR CONNECTION STRONG ENOUGH that you feel my relief all the way from Italy as I step off the boat, or will it take years for us to be that close? Rick ties up the boat, opting for a night on Pender rather than a head-on pounding on the way back. It’s raining and cold and I don’t care. I still feel sick, but I can’t stop smiling. I hug Benni, and again, lifting her and squeezing.

  The headlights of Celia’s Beetle sweep onto the marina lot, the rasp and rattle of the engine faint and mixed with the wind. Behind us, all the wires and masts from the sailboats sing along in an eerie chorus. She takes us off the main road, winding through the dark woods, stopping once to pull away a branch that is blocking the drive. Her old house sits with authority, having earned the right to live among the trees unmolested. In the living room we stand close to the fire, dripping on her carpet. I am unable to stand solidly on my feet, still rocking from the boat while I get used to a living room full of cats, candles, and other comfy things.

  —Benni would like to be examined as soon as possible, Doctor.

  —Very well, I will examine the patient. You can stay out here in the waiting room and keep the cats company.

  —Gladly, Doctor.

  While Celia examines Benni in the washroom, calming her with a positive prognosis, I imagine you in Milan. The outfit you put on pinches your left breast, and being in such a damn hurry to put it on and get out there, you do not straighten it out, so you suffer as you stroll down the catwalk, and resentment builds, flowering out from this pinching sensation into general boredom with the show, sour disgust with the whole industry. And to everyone looking at you, your discomfort is irrelevant, as it always is. And you realize all you want to do is cash in your chips and be with me on this island and do something groovy like be a beekeeper or make wind chimes out of seashells and sell them to American tourists down at the market, but then you think about all the money you have spent, about wrinkles that have become more prominent, the years you have left, and curse the long lenses that have swung over like eager penises to point at younger, newer women.

  THE JANITOR

  CARL DIDN’T KNOW WHY HE LIED. LIED was the wrong word. Carl didn’t know why he let the lie happen. The receptionist mistook him for the new principal and he didn’t correct her. She babbled on until she created her own explanation: she had marked down the wrong date on her calendar.

  Saying nothing was a good way to hide ignorance. Carl clung to that belief no matter how many times it failed him. When he was sixteen he drove seven hours to Fort Mac to make his first and last major buy. He threw up next to a dumpster, entered the back door of an abandoned dry cleaner, and made his way to the storeroom. He sat at the table and waited. The guy walked in, took Carl’s bag of money, and walked out. Carl said nothing. He didn’t want to look like a bumpkin, unaware of how things were done in the big city, but he had let go of the cash. He sat in a cracked plastic chair that pinched his butt when he moved. He stared at his watch, each blinking second a judgment. He memorized the warning label on an empty pail of cleaner. He was having a staring contest with the skull and crossbones when the guy came back with a fat envelope full of windowpanes.

  Ms. Gill came out to the reception area and introduced herself as the one who had been acting principal for the past two months. She was surprised to see him, as she had expected him the next day. When he responded with a shrug, she led him to his new office. She apologized for the small size, and he thought to himself that it was almost big enough for putting practice.

  Carl settled into the most amazing sitting experience he had ever had. He didn’t need to tilt or slouch to get comfortable. A soft, rounded bulge fit perfectly into his lumbar region. To sit in it was to become one with it. Melissa introduced herself and placed a box of five thousand business cards on his desk. Carl picked up the first one and read the full name of the man whose life he was borrowing: James McGraw, Principal, Lester B. Pearson High School.

  Ms. Gill was eager to show off their modern facilities, the chemistry lab, the renovated gym, but most of all she wanted to talk about her new zero-tolerance initiative. A number of undesirables had already been ejected from the student population, making it a safer, happier, more educational place to be. Her PowerPoint slide show had many colourful charts, which seemed to offer proof that life at the school had improved. He tried to follow what she was saying, but the lack of pauses between her words made it impossible. He sensed by her rising tone that the presentation was over, and his mood lightened. She had completely reorganized the personnel files—that was their first stop—but first she wanted his opinion on the use of parent volunteers for extracurricular activities. The subject had been changed, but he was still unable to latch on to more than a word here and there. Her speech became noise, and soon after, he had blocked it out altogether.

  They passed a girl who was hanging on tightly to the rail of the stairway. Carl could see she was about to cry. He paused while Ms. Gill continued on, the girl by the rail taking his full attention. He walked back down the stairs and stood behind her.

  —What’s wrong?

  She turned around, startled, and broke down into the kind of full-body crying that most tried to save for the privacy of a bedroom. They stood facing each other while her tears made a mess of her makeup. He pulled her into him and held her. The bell rang and students flooded out into the hallways, rushing past them as they stood unmoving. Some stared, some didn’t notice, but no one did or said anything to disturb them. Except Ms. Gill, who began to clear her throat as if she were choking on a rice cake. The girl looked up at Carl.

  —Who are you?

  —You can call me Jim.

  —You’re nice, Jim.

  She quietly picked up her books and joined the stream of students heading for class. Ms. Gill did not look pleased.

  —I didn’t want to correct you in front of the student, but please don’t touch the students. If a student has emotional or psychological problems, we direct t
hem to the guidance counsellor. Where did you say you worked before you came here?

  Carl pretended not to hear the question, merging into the flow, making his way to the ground floor while Ms. Gill struggled to keep up. Fifteen minutes later, a kid in the library passed him and said, Hi Jim. Three others did the same before Carl had made it back to the office. Ms. Gill pointed out that the position of principal was not a popularity contest.

  Carl wondered how anyone ever got any work done while sitting in a chair that could easily put you to sleep. Maybe that was the point. Maybe with the door shut, the blinds closed, and the receptionist guarding the door, he’d be able to sleep till noon. Maybe that’s what a principal did.

  Ms. Gill walked in without knocking and dropped a heavy black binder on the desk in front of him.

  —It would no doubt be helpful for you to review minutes from our meetings going back at least six months. It’ll give you some idea of how we do things here, what kind of issues we’ve been dealing with.

  They were organized from most recent to oldest, and colour-coded stickers were used to mark memos related to subjects discussed in the minutes. Carl watched her throat bob as she explained the coding system. She had a brooch the shape of a playful kitten, which didn’t suit her. He imagined a tomcat brooch, ears back, hissing, and combat ready. There was a strange calm in the room, and Carl looked up to notice she was gone.

  Yes, it was all very critical stuff. There was a notice about students who were getting into the staff washroom, and additional clarification regarding payment for monthly parking passes. It was all there, for sure, and it was killing Carl to muck through the first ten pages. He flipped to the middle but it didn’t get any better. He found a diversion in the bottom desk drawer. The old principal’s calendar was much more interesting than a mountain of memos, and he was sure he’d find the reason for the old man’s departure if he looked close enough.

  Carl disappeared around eleven a.m. He knew where he was, of course, and didn’t seem very concerned that it took Ms. Gill half an hour to find him sweeping the third-floor hallway. He was leaning on his broom, debating with a group of students the claim that Marilyn Manson had a PhD from Harvard.

  Ms. Gill hailed him from down the hall, and the group quickly scattered.

  —What are you doing?

  —Sweeping.

  —Our cleaning staff makes regular rounds.

  —Floor’s dirty now.

  —Oh, I see what you’re doing. I see what this is. This is supposed to be symbolic, right?

  —No, this is supposed to get the floor clean.

  —Very clever. Don’t let me hold you up.

  Carl watched her walk away and tried to figure out what she had been talking about. He considered calling her back to ask her, but silence was safer.

  After introductions in the staff lounge, it seemed like the teachers were waiting for him to say something. There was nothing to say. How could there be? He had just arrived. He did his best to get something started.

  —Did anyone watch that new show last night? It’s the one with the interviews at the start and then the people who were being interviewed put on boxing gloves and duke it out in the ring. I forget the name. It’s a stupid name. Sharon, you know the one I’m talking about, right?

  —I don’t watch television.

  —Yeah, and I don’t masturbate. Come on, somebody must have heard of this show.

  Robert finally spoke.

  —Fiddle Faddle.

  —That’s it, Fiddle Faddle!

  —It’s my kid’s favourite show. She’s eight.

  —I seen the star of that show. I seen him when he was in town just standing on the street corner like a regular person.

  Everyone stared at Carl. He wondered if there was something hanging off his nose, or a bit of food stuck in his teeth. Sharon smiled painfully and asked him a question.

  —Jim, what’s your vision for the direction of the school?

  —Is the school moving?

  —No.

  —Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about direction then.

  —What I meant was …

  —Hold that thought.

  Carl pushed his chair back and walked out. Most of his lunch was finished anyway, and he needed some fresh air. He didn’t like sitting with the teachers. They weren’t very friendly, and every question seemed to be a trap.

  When Carl walked out into the yard, the students behind him noticed. He was headed toward the small group of fringe types that stood like ugly weeds on a manicured lawn. The second- and third-floor landings overlooking the yard soon filled, and on the ground floor kids spilled out onto the trampled grass to watch.

  Ms. Gill pushed her way past the others to see Jim headed toward the group. Her fists were clenched. Jim wasn’t escorted by a security guard or a police officer. He was walking over as if he were about to say hi to the neighbour over the fence.

  Carl walked toward them and they ignored him. He paused for a moment just outside the group, and even from a distance Ms. Gill could see their heads go back in laughter. He took a step forward into their circle and everyone waited. There was no close-quarters takedown. He didn’t snatch the joint from the lips of the kid next to him. There were no searches, no confiscation. He just stood there and talked to them as if everything were normal. He turned around as someone in the group pointed back to the school, and he waved at all the expectant faces. Eventually the spectators became bored and shuffled back to their classes.

  Ms. Gill’s face was still red as she stood on the threshold to Carl’s office with a file folder in her hand. He got up from his desk and took it from her grip with some difficulty. When he opened it, he was looking down at his own résumé.

  —You’ll have to do something about this fellow. He was supposed to be our new janitor, but he didn’t show. Could you take care of it?

  Carl waited for her to leave, but it became clear that she wanted to see him in action. He called his number and smiled at her until his voicemail kicked in. He told his voicemail, without hesitation, without wavering, that anyone who wanted to work at Lester B. Pearson had to abide by a professional code of conduct. Ms. Gill seemed to light up and nod her head whenever he used a phrase he had read in one of her many memos. He scolded himself for not showing up and said that he expected more of himself. Everyone who worked at this school, from the janitor on up to the principal, was expected to meet or exceed a certain standard. When he had had enough of his own lecture, Carl quietly fired himself and dropped the phone back into its cradle.

  —I didn’t think you would fire him.

  Carl panicked for a second before her memo on the stinkbomb incident in the second-floor washroom came to mind.

  —I have zero tolerance for this kind of unacceptable behaviour.

  Drawn by noises from the gym, Carl found a game: lights off, no teacher, shirts and skins. They didn’t notice him slip in and grab the broom that sat in the corner. He made his way slowly around the court, smiling at the sound of rubber soles chirping against the wooden floor. The skins were taking a beating. Every two points the shirts did a little dance, pointed fingers, taunted the enemy. The skins slouched lower down as they took in the chants. They didn’t move as fast, let more passes go, and fought over who was to blame.

  Another loose and lazy pass was missed by a skin, and instinctively Carl reached out to stop the ball. The wooden handle of the broom fell on the floor, making a clacking sound that echoed through the gym. He put the ball between his knees and took off his shirt. They laughed until he started to move.

  Carl was covered in the sweat of the righteous when Ms. Gill entered the gym with a security guard at her side.

  —Put down that ball!

  The confused players looked at Ms. Gill then back to Carl. He took a shot from the penalty line. It dinged the rim and a skin sent it back his way. He took five steps back and tried again. He missed the backboard. Five more steps back, he dribbled hard to drown out Ms. Gill. />
  —PUT DOWN THAT BALL!

  Carl pounded the ball into the floor in time with his heart and he saw the ball go down, no backboard, no rim, he saw the ball go down, before it even left his hands.

  COMMAND MYSTIQUE

  DEAR MA,

  It gets hot in Texas, but that ain’t nothing compared to the desert. And in Texas I don’t have to run around in thirty pounds of gear and body armour. We were hit by a sandstorm today. I saw it coming toward us like a giant tsunami of sand a thousand feet high. When it passed over us it got real dark. If I were the enemy, that’s when I would attack. A Black Hawk crashed last week trying to take off in bad visibility. There’s no point of reference when the sand is blowing, so the pilots get disoriented. I’m settling in here. It’s not too bad but some things suck more than others. I miss your meat loaf. What they call meat loaf here is just a bland clump of mystery meat with a snaky line of ketchup on top for flavour. The food is so gross here, sometimes I skip a meal just so I’ll be hungry enough to eat the next. How are things back home? How’s Jenny?

  DEAR SON,

  I was thrilled to get your message this morning. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t fully cleaned since your good-bye party. The fire ants have taken full advantage of this. Your cousin says he has a nontoxic cure for them. I know it’s silly, but having the party hats and banners around makes me feel closer to you. Your father would be so proud to see you serve your country as he did. I am suffering with you in the heat. Every time my baby suffers, I suffer. I know you don’t like it when I call you that, but you will always be my baby. When you get home, I will make as much meat loaf as you can handle. I would send it by mail if that were possible. Things could be worse. Have you been forced to eat any MREs yet? Your father used to call them Meals Ready to Excrete, or Meals Rejected by Ethiopians. Uncle Nick is still in hospital and asks about you often. He is very brave, just like his nephew. Did you know you can attach digital photos to emails? I will send some of Nick on one of his better days.