The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  Nana looks a hundred years older and eighty years smaller. The nurse cranks up the bed-head. “Mrs. Appleton, your granddaughter is here.”

  “Hariet?” Her breath is puffier than Mrs. Butters’ after ten jigs.

  “Hi, Nana. Not doing so good, eh?”

  “She winds easy, but her wits are all there. Talk to her.”

  Her face shines happy with all my tellings. “. . . and Huey has a boat. This one time a humpback came right out of the water, crashing down so hard I got soaked to the skin.”

  “You’re Vincent’s mirror reflection. He never did all those terrible things they said, did he?” Her eyes turn the colour of air when the coldest fog moves in and her face is crumpled like a letter started but tossed away because of mistakes.

  I pat her needle-stained hand. “Sometimes I hear him singing. I know it’s him because nobody made songs up like him.”

  “Bring the nurse.”

  “I’m right here, Mrs. Appleton.” Grandma’s finger asks for her ear. She whispers and the nurse leaves.

  “I better go, Nana. They’ll be missing me.”

  “Wait.”

  The nurse brings a little envelope. “Your nana wants you to have this.” She slides an emerald diamond ring onto my palm.

  Nana pushes out words. “It was your great-great-grandma’s. I always wondered how I’d choose which of you jewels to give it to.”

  “I’ll remember you whenever it sparkles.” She smells like Hoover after a roll on a carcass when I kiss her cheek. “I planted a linden tree looking out over the ocean for Daddy. When I go back home I’ll plant one for you. What kind would you like?”

  “A willow.”

  “Where have you been!”

  “Buying wool for Jory’s scarf.”

  “You can’t just go wandering off on your own.”

  “Oh, hush, Dolores, when hasn’t Ari Appleton navigated life on her own?” I smile at the sound of my new name said out loud in Montreal. Auntie Elsie examines my bag. “You’re right, Ari. These colours will be fun together.”

  “Is Jennah here yet?”

  “She and Roland are coming for supper.”

  “Who’s Roland?”

  Jory looks up from her comic book. “Her dorkbutt husband.”

  “Jennah’s married?”

  “Knocked up and tied the knot.”

  I tuck in the corner with my Skyfish pillow. Jinx is gone, and Jennah is tied in knots. There will be no promised flower-girl dress and pink sweetheart rose-ring for my hair.

  Jennah has disappeared somewhere under puffed cheeks, swollen belly, and thick ankles. Roland takes the comfy chair and spits, “Christ, Jen. You smoke this whole pack? Keep your grimy paws outta my pockets.”

  “There’s a pack in my purse.”

  “Get ’em. Grab your Uncle Gordo and me a beer while you’re up.”

  All the lights are off in Jennah’s hair. I push the hassock up to the chair for her swollen feet. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. One for me, too.” Jennah fingers the clay beads around her neck and gives me a wink-smile.

  “Can I say hello?” She nods and I whisper to her mounded tummy, “Hi, baby. I’m Ari. Do you have a seahorse in there with you?”

  Uncle Gord slingshots me to the couch with a tug on my waistband. “You’re blocking Candid Camera, ya pea-brained Newfie.”

  Roland scratches his balls and goofy-laughs while Jory pesters him for a dollar. He holds it in one hand and slaps her butt with the other. “Fetch me a beer for it.”

  I take my plate to the kitchen and pick up the towel. “Thank you, Auntie Dolores.”

  “The dishes your job at Mary’s?”

  “We all pitched in. Even the dogs gave a tongue.”

  “You have your own room?”

  “Shared with the dogs.”

  “You sleep in with them when you were scared or anything?”

  “I wasn’t much scared there.”

  “Mary and Nia—”

  Auntie Elsie pinches her words, “Dolores, I said let it be.”

  Down east I learned a thing or two about fishing. “We were like the Three Bears: Auntie Nia liked her bed hard. Auntie Mary liked hers soft. And my bed was just right.”

  NINE

  I study the backs of Uncle Marvin’s and Auntie Elsie’s heads as he drives us to the train. There’s just niceness inside them, like a pair of good dress socks. Auntie Dolores and Uncle Gord are a pair of stinky gym socks. I wonder if they found their matches or made each other that way. Mary and Nia are warm handcrafted highland woolies, and Mummy is like the bin of odd socks kept atop the dryer. Even with Daddy they were a mixed unpair. Auntie Elsie peeks over her shoulder. “You okay, Ari?”

  “Jennah didn’t find a very good sock, did she?”

  “Pardon, honey?”

  “Nothing.” I climb up the metal steps and sink into the velvet seat.

  September pictures from a Toronto-bound train aren’t near as good as October heading east. Auntie Elsie squeezes my knee. “You want a soda?”

  I want my aunties and my pups, my school, and Jake. “What happened to Jinx?”

  Jillianne finds her tongue. “She bit Toby and Auntie Iris said she couldn’t have a vicious beast around the boys.”

  Jinxie was more a peaceful rug than a dog.

  Jory slathers on pink lip gunk. “Toby’s a demon-spawn. Likely poked the old girl in the eye with a fork.”

  “Hush.” Auntie Elsie loads Jory’s hand with Chiclets to stick up her mouth. “Uncle Gord took her to a nice farm.”

  “Right, the Triple D: Dead Dog Dirt-nap farm.”

  “Jory Appleton, that’s enough. And where did you find that top? It’s too small.”

  “Snitched it out of Scari’s bag. It’s radioactive.”

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s batik,” I say and swallow down my inside tears.

  Auntie Elsie brings Jory back for the tenth time. “Sit and don’t move a muscle while I see to lunch.”

  “What if I have to whiz?”

  Auntie Elsie never yells but her, “Just—sit,” stings like a wallop on each cheek.

  Jory thunks her feet between Jillianne and me. “This place is a freakin’ gold mine. Old chrome-dome up there gave me two bucks to cop a feel of my tit and I’ve pocketed at least twenty cigs.”

  “Auntie Nia says smoking is bad for you.”

  “Auntie Nia says smoking is bad for you.” Jory thinks her making-fun voice is smart but she sounds like a dolphin crying.

  Auntie Elsie brings tuna sandwiches and little cartons of milk.

  “Did you know tuna can grow over ten feet long and weigh hundreds of pounds? Jake told me that.”

  “Then how do they fit them in those little cans? He’s one of them pea-brained Newfies.” Jory kicks my shin. “Hey, that geezer by the door will give you five bucks if you let him pet your pussy.”

  “Jory Appleton! Let’s hope your new father can put some decency into you.”

  I scramble out but my belly ups before I reach the toilet. While surveying the mess in the aisle, shiny black shoes come into view.

  “Sorry, I’ll clean it up.”

  William Walrus in his brass-buttoned suit buries it in sawdust. “Don’t fret yourself, little miss. Happens all the time.”

  “They’re taking me from my ocean.”

  He crouches low and lifts my chin. “Every shining jewel comes from a crushing it never knew it could survive. There’s good waiting for you. Old William sees it. Go wash your wee face.”

  Auntie knocks. “Hariet, come out. People are waiting.”

  I march to my seat, snatch the pillow from under Jory’s head, and dive into it, face first.

  “Your mummy wanted to tell you herself. I hear he’s a very
nice man.”

  Jory lobs a wad of something that thuds on my shoulder. “He owns a store. We’re going to be rich.”

  TEN

  Every Thanksgiving the Appleton girls posed jewel-pretty on Grandma’s steps. June always snorted, “Nothing like Appleton Lie for dessert.”

  Jasper and I study the framed prints marching up the wall. The first ones picture just Jennah. Then Jennah holding June. Then, Jacquie sits on Jennah’s knee and June beside her. Two years later Jory is added. Two years after that, Jillianne. Then in 1953, I’m in the picture, looking the little troll at the end of a line of golden fairies. The picture for 1961 is absent but 1962 hangs there—without me. I finger the empty step. Not that I wanted to come or anything, but did no one notice they were an apple short, Jasper?

  Thanksgiving 1963 Mummy marries Len Zajac. What does she see looking at the picture of her girls lined on the steps for the occasion? Jennah is the kind of puffed that would have Mrs. Butters propping her in bed with herbal tea and no stress. June’s hair has died, been murdered black as black to match her shadowed eyes. Jacquie is puddled in pounds of chips and Oreos; her face pocked like all the tears have burned holes into her white skin. Jory is buried under cherry lips and green shadow. Jillianne could be on Mars or in Florida, her disappearing stare is anywhere but 36 Leyton Avenue. And me? I kind of shine.

  Mummy laughs at I Love Lucy. She fusses over Jillianne. When I tell her I read grade seven books and draw like a child prodigal, she looks at the coffee stain on Grandma’s rug. “You get that from your father.” When I ask if I can go back to my school in Pleasant Cove, she looks past my shoulder. “That’s no place for an impressionable girl.”

  Len Zajac buys 47 Leyton Avenue for his new bride. He paints the yellow brick the brightest blue God ever thought up. Jory helps herself to the bigger room with silent Jillianne. June makes a cave in the basement pickle room. I excavate a corner of Jacquie’s room. She’s messier than the aftermath of a maritime storm; every corner is piled with books, cookie bags, bar wrappers, and nothing-to-wear battles with clothes.

  The greatest trauma of my situation comes from having my bed aside the newlyweds with only a thread-thin wall between. Sometimes, when I slept at Sadie’s we’d hear Huey and the Missus whispering sweet, “Gets over heres and butter me toast.” Their cries were like whale music. Now, I hear the headboard bump-bump-bump against the wall before Len moans three times. Then Mummy skeedaddles into the shower, staying until the hot water turns cold.

  Out of the houseful, Len stresses me least. He makes settling into the new of this place softer. When today, the wailing, big as the Atlantic, started up everywhere around me, he was the only one who didn’t say, “This is not for children’s ears.” He took me to the lake and told me that the president of our neighbour country had died. He gave me a starry paper flag to place in the quiet waves. He said his name was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, JFK, and all that needed doing was to honour him by being, Just, Friendly, and Kind. Jasper thinks Len would be a good president.

  At one time he may have had hopes of being handsome before growing the kind of tall that curves your shoulders to protect your head from doortops. No matter how much he eats, no flesh covers his golf ball elbows. Long shirts would help but he always wears plaid short-sleeved ones and black pants that shine a little. He smiles, a lot, showing pointy teeth, a little too long and turning sideways. Whenever Bonanza is on Mummy sighs, “Doesn’t Little Joe have the most perfect smile?”

  Every week Grandma hands me a letter from Aunties M&N. She makes tea while I read it to her.

  “They’re coming for a visit after Christmas!”

  “Don’t let your mother catch wind of it.”

  “Why doesn’t Mummy like Auntie Mary?”

  “She thinks all her troubles are Mary’s doing. Even the devil in your father.” Grandma measures biscuit ingredients. “Your mummy was fifteen when she met your daddy. He was near twice her age, but pretty as Jesus and could charm gold from granite.” Grandma flours the counter and pats out the dough while I peel potatoes. “They were swallowed up in the other until he caught sight of Mary. One look at her and Vincent could see nothing else. Here’s your mummy, this golden princess, and Mary Catherine, plain as brown paper. Mary wanted none of him which made him near crazy.” She rolls out Granddad Appleton’s trouble with the drink and his knocking blocks off. “That mother of his coddled him something terrible.”

  “Cuddled?”

  “Coddled.”

  Like an egg, Jasper?

  No, I suspect it’s like diddling under his pants.

  Yeah, sounds like it.

  “Your father went to church five times a week and twice on Sunday, as if the Almighty could fix up that mess.”

  “I thought God could fix anything.”

  “In my seventy-some years I’ve never seen Him show up and fix a damn thing. It’s up to us to make what we make.” Grandma hands me a bowl of beans to snap. “When the war started, Mary Catherine volunteered right off. Your daddy followed her to the enlistment centre. He came back from war cracked worse than most.”

  “So Mummy hates Auntie Mary because Daddy liked her?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t have told you all this. Some things are not for children.”

  “But they get loaded up with them anyway, don’t they?”

  Grandma’s flappy-skinned arms swing like hammocks as she reels me close. “Dwelling on things does no one any good.”

  When Huey Butters fixed boats he stripped the wood bare and replaced the rotten bits. He said a hundred coats of paint would never hide what’s underneath. Aunties M&N were never one bit squeamish about peeling back layers and opening my underhurts to the sun.

  “M&N are good, Grandma.”

  “You don’t have to be telling me that. Every grey hair on my head is from your mother and father.” Grandma scurries to the hall as the borders come clomping in. “Mind your boots. Don’t be tracking in muck on my clean floors.”

  I tuck my letter into my treasure box behind Grandma’s sofa.

  My squeeze sends her steadying on the coat rack. I say, “It does a body good to have another woman to talk to.”

  “Off with you now.”

  As I cross the street I hear Applegeddon rising inside our house. It’s report card day. Our beside-neighbour tackles the snow on his sidewalk. “Afternoon, Mr. Hawthorne. Could I do that for you?”

  “For a nickel?”

  “Visiting Sparky suits me more.”

  He passes me the shovel. “Whenever you need time with Sparks just come on over.”

  I glance up the street to see Len sauntering along, hands in pockets, whistling. When he’s out in the open I see the giraffe in him as he walks and takes in the sky.

  “Evening, Ari. Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas.” His words rumble around his peach pit. The flavour of his voice isn’t as sweet as down-home talking but there’s something like warm cookie in it. He listens to the house. “Some trouble?”

  “Report card day.”

  “How was your term?”

  “All A’s except for PE. I turned every folk dance into a clog.”

  “Come to the store tomorrow and pick out a reward.”

  The door slams as Jory bolts, red-faced and riled down the street, saying the F-word to us as a hello and goodbye. Len grabs a shovel, too, and we work until not a single snowflake remains on the walks, then with no other choice we go inside.

  Mum stiffs as Len kisses her cheek. “You’re late. I can’t be expected to do everything around here.”

  “We were just clearing the walks, Mummy. Mr. Hawthorne has a bad knee so we did his, too. You look pretty with your hair like that.”

  Even after all the troubles, Mummy is beautiful, all willowy long and curvy. Hair, like butterscotch, with threads of gold waving like the ocean at sunset. Her eyes are bluer than
the forget-me-nots in Auntie M&N’s garden. “The girls need a father. Jory missed more school than she showed up for and Jacquie’s not even trying.”

  Len examines the report cards then starts up the stairs to try and reach Jacquie buried under her blankets and burdens. “Ari, go wake up June for work.”

  June won’t be sleeping. She’ll be reading angry books or writing gut-ripping poetry like,

  God is a squirrel

  hoarding nuts

  in his fat cheeks,

  twitching his bushy tail.

  Ordering

  from his great oak, ‘Fall on your knees.’

  I stand . . .

  She works at joints in the Village where poets and musicians sing about freedom and love and establishment bastards. I sniff before knocking. If I smell something like a sweet summer bonfire, she’ll be more wooly-grey than black. “June, you want me to make you a sandwich before work?” The room is cloudy when she opens the door. She’s wearing the T-shirt I made her: black with bleached moons and silvery star beads.

  “Go scope out the escape route. Flick the light when I can get past the Gestapo.”

  June has taken a vow of silence until the Oppression of Women ends. Mummy always growls, “If you don’t talk I’m going to rip that tongue out of your head and make you talk.”

  She also pretends not to eat, in protest of war and poverty. She started talking to me one day when I brought her a plate of Auntie M&N’s survival cookies, imploring, “June, don’t starve to death before you bring about world peace.”

  She squeezed her eyes over the top of her book so that her eye-paint looked like two prunes staring at me.

  “Silent Spring. Is it about the sea, too? I read The Sea Around Us.”

  “Bullshit you’ve read Carson.”

  “Jake read it to me.”

  The sweet herb smoke in the air that day made her rubbery easy and hungry. “These aren’t bad.”