The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “From the grave, laughing, laughing, laughing . . . Well, last laugh is on him.”

  I don’t know why I want to hear more but I want to hear all of it. Jacquie pulls me out the door. “The fucking stupid, crazy freak. Come on, Ari.” Jacquie’s firm hold lands me in the old Ford. It still holds Len’s shadow and a little of his scent. “If you dare take to heart one word that bitch says I swear I’ll pitch you in the prickle hedge.”

  “Has she always been this loony?”

  “She’s always soured at anybody having anything more than her.” Jacquie’s tears muddy her words. “Len was so good to her. She can’t even trouble herself to say his name.”

  “I don’t want Papa’s name on her lips.”

  “I hate her. I fucking hate her. The blind bitch doesn’t see anything, not even herself. Christ, she looks like a used-up whore.” The truck clunks into second then grinds to first.

  A penny pokes out from under Jacquie’s shoe. I remember it flipping from Len’s pocket when he pulled out his keys only last month. Jasper, how can he be gone? “I wish her heart had been the one to stop.”

  Jacquie pulls onto the road. “She’d have to have one for that to happen.”

  I’m hiding in a two-bedroom bungalow afraid to answer the phone or flush the toilet in case things are bugged. There’s no work or school or family, only Zodiac insulating me from the gaping Papa-shaped chasm.

  At the preliminary hearing Mum is toned down in an Audrey Hepburn getup and Marilyn Monroe hair and Officer Dick is polished and ribboned like a war hero.

  The negotiations have me thinking that judges are dumber than dirt. Not clay dirt, dirt-dirt. Everyone has a mouthful to say but no one asks me a friggin’ thing. Then, it’s against the rules for me to stay with anyone who loves me until the judge decides who loves me best so they’re plunking me in a foster farm until the reports are pondered.

  A lady seizes me, loads me into a black Lincoln, delivering me to purgatory. “The Guthries are close to your school and two of our most experienced caregivers. You come from a big family so you won’t be lonely for brothers and sisters here.”

  “What kind of a friggin’ stupid child protector dumps a kid with strangers when she has perfectly good relatives of her own?”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “You’ve never personally had the pleasure of being fostered, have you?”

  “I have thirty years’ experience.”

  “Oh, for pity sake. You could hold a snake by the tail for a hundred years and never have a clue what it’s like to face the mouth end, ma’am.”

  A major curl of red paint looks like the front door is sticking out its tongue. The rest of the clapboard has a bad case of eczema. The piss stink throws me back to life with other butt-whacking fosters, except I sense here the parental units will have trouble figuring out how to open a Cocoa Puffs box. I don’t know how many foster kids they keep, but they have two blood sons, Donny and Doolie, and a little cross-eyed girl named Donna. At least the J’s show a little imagination.

  Given the spectrum of possibilities, I get a spectacular break. Daddy Guthrie’s dick is incarcerated in yards of belly flab and he’s welded to the La-Z-Boy. By law, they have to provide me with my own bed, which they do: a rollaway cot on the back porch. I’d freeze, toes at one end and tits-to-nose at the other if they gave a rat’s whisker about me. But as long as they get their government lettuce and the occasional cabbage roll, we’re square. I tell them I’m going to the library to study. Ermmaline scratches her butt in consent. When I come back with perogies she sends me out for more, encouraging my studies ’round the clock.

  After school I work at the store, eat Babcia’s body-good cooking—which she does all day and sometimes through the night, like somehow it keeps her sad heart beating. I soak up my dog and the people that miss Len as much as I do, pass through the Guthrie’s, drop off a toll, escape through the back door, landing in Chase’s warm bed.

  A hearing happened today. I wasn’t invited. Afterward, Auntie Mary’s hair looks more a stress than a party. She repeats, at least five times. “Things will be okay, sweetheart.”

  “What happened?”

  Water collects in her eyes. “Your mum said some things that cast doubt on whether I could be a suitable guardian.”

  I know it’s the Nia love, a thing that can’t be talked about or said is true because God and country declare it an abomination. “When do I get to say what the situation is?”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  “Can you tell Mr. Lukeman I need to see him?”

  Chase sits on the bed singing a song he wrote about his love being longer than my hair. I smile at the snow leopard in him, knowing that, with me, he feels almost happy being a creature with unique spots. Weeks ago, I gave the seduction thing another try, snuggling up birthday-suit shiny behind him and kissed his back. He scurried out the end of the bed. “Jesus, Ari. Why do you have to go and fuck things up between us?” At first, water gathered for a pathetic girl-cry but then the laughing started and wouldn’t stop tickling me. He started, too. “What are we laughing at?”

  “We’re both so fucked up we don’t need to fuck. We’re fucking perfect for each other.”

  Tonight, he climbs over and kisses my knee. “How’s the letter coming?”

  “I’m thinking it doesn’t matter what I say. No one is going to listen. You want me to write on the sofa so you can sleep?”

  “I’m reading War and Peace and you’re writing it.” He comes back with hot chocolate and rippled potato chips. “Let me know if you need an ear.”

  I crunch while composing, I hope, an epic of Ben-Hur magnitude.

  Dear Right Honourable Judge: I count back and there are eleven, that I can remember, places I’ve lived. I was most afraid travelling alone to Aunt Mary’s, but there I met the mother every child should have, but rarely gets. Three pages of blessed times with M&N flow out, written with all the wholesome churchiness I can resurrect on paper. Leaving there was the hardest thing I faced in my ten years on this earth. But here I met Len, the father every child should have, but rarely gets. Pages capture the Zajac years. I’ve watched my mother through a whisky-pilled haze for as long as I can remember. The times she surfaced, hope ran big. I don’t hope anymore because it makes her sliding back under hurt less. Though it could be an epistle, I leave her failings on a single page. You must decide where I’ll live, and ice is creeping under my skin with the thought that no one will hear a kid’s voice. After all, what do we know? I know my mum has stood before you in her Grace Kelly suit and Officer Irwin in his brass-buttoned finery saying that they only love me. It’s a lie and I know the truth. If you’re a fair judge, the kind that stands with a blindfold and weighs the evidence you will ask me the answer before you decide. Sincerely, Ari Appleton.

  What you wear when you stand before a judge is important. Hippie look, too rebellious. Minidress, too slutty. Peasant skirt, too Amish. “Jennah, you’ve got to help me get this right.”

  She dresses me in a navy pleated skirt, navy tights, penny loafers, and a white bunny-soft sweater set. Len’s necklace for strength and a fat braid down my back. “Go get ’em, sis.”

  Mr. Lukeman takes me to a place in downtown Toronto that confirms that judges are kings of castles and kids merely dirty rascals. “What do you have in the box, Ari?”

  My voice sounds like Chase’s high guitar string in the echo-y hall. “Evidence.”

  A lady shows me into a big room, looking on the inside like Grandma’s coffin did on the outside. “Sit. Judge Learner will be with you momentarily.”

  I place the box on a brass-nailed leather chair, then journey around the room looking at travel treasures nestled beside the judge’s important books. A door I didn’t know was there appears. A man in white shirt and suspenders clears his throat like a tommy-gun. I wish I’d sat like I’d been tol
d to because I top him by inches. “Sorry, sir. I was just admiring your vase. Is it from South America?”

  “Costa Rica.”

  “It’s spectacular.”

  He cracks, just a little. “Sit, please. I have to be in court in an hour.”

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate you giving me this time.”

  “Your letter was compelling. So, state your case.”

  I’d hoped for a little butter-up small talk first but you don’t mess with a judge on a schedule. “Auntie Mary wants me because she’s good and wants to give me a safe home. Officer Irwin wants me so he can keep an eye on the money until he figures a way to get it. And my mother wants me out of spite.”

  “Spite?”

  “She hates Auntie Mary and knows nothing will hurt her more than seeing me hurt. And she’s angry at Len and wants him to suffer in the great beyond by seeing me suffer here.”

  “That’s a rather jaded view of your mother.”

  “You get that way when you’ve been the misspelled Hariet at the end of a string of jewels your whole life.”

  Air puffs through his nose like a dog sniffing for clues. “What’s in the box?”

  I lift it onto his blotter. “It’s not a bribe, sir. I just want you to see what a kid who believes she’s dirt becomes when she has a Mary and a Len who show her she’s clay.”

  He lifts out the pot, turning it, the colours of sun and ocean mingling like tears. He stops where a phoenix is emerging. “This is magnificent. Where did you get it?”

  “I made it, thanks to Auntie Mary’s hand guiding mine. There’s only a small window where the clay is soft and pliable and the spirits inside can be coaxed out.”

  “I can’t accept . . .”

  “I’d say any decision-making judge should have at least one reminder along with all these books that he needs to look for the Mary in a kid’s life and hurry them there before the clay hardens.”

  “Miss Appleton, by law there needs to be compelling—overwhelming evidence to supersede a mother’s rights to her child.”

  I tell him what I know of my birth.

  “She came back for you, didn’t she?”

  “You know what she said to my aunt when she took me from her?” I can hardly let the words into the light. “She spit it right into Mary’s face, ‘You love her, mind, body, and soul, don’t you? Well, live knowing that that’s how much I despise her.’”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Mrs. Butters was there, so was my Grandma. Even if they hadn’t told me, I’ve felt it my whole life.”

  “It’s hearsay. I need facts.”

  “In my letter are pages of facts, and my sisters, aunts, and teachers have given you the goods. If I have to get messed with before you can do what’s right,” I stand, “then Mr. Bumble is right, the law is a ass.”

  Judge Learner commands silence with a few shots from his throat. “This decision has not been an easy one. While the law states . . .” Yards of blather and humming before he gets to admitting that his hands are tied and I’m the property of the Dicks. “I strongly recommend that the child’s schooling be considered and that she be permitted to continue at Birchmount by staying with her sister Jacquie Zajac during the week. It’s remarkable to me that in light of so many losses and stressors, Miss Appleton has maintained a B average, a position on the school newspaper, and two part-time jobs. She’s an articulate, accomplished young woman. After reviewing the facts, it’s the opinion of this court that this is in great part due to the influences of the Zajacs and Mary Trembley. I have found no evidence of moral impropriety and am hereby ordering that . . .” I look up, heart thrashing, porridge churning, “that the minor child be permitted to work after school and weekends at the family store and that she spend the months of July and August with her aunt.”

  The small victory feels pretty close to the best of my life.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The fact that Auntie Mary gets something throws Mum into a whisky sour. Lawyers, Mum, Dick, Jacquie, and I gather in a room. Mr. Lukeman begins, “In accordance with the judge’s recommendation that Ari remain at her school I propose that she stay with Jacquie.”

  Mum is riding something new, and whatever it is it’s making her not so much jittery as sharp. “Let me make this clear, her name is Hair-eeee-ittt. Secondly, there’s nothing to discuss until her going to that pervert is off the table.”

  “That was Judge Learner’s decision and is not part of this discussion.”

  “She’s never going there. We’ll take it to the Supreme Court if necessary.”

  “This is family court, Mrs. Zajac. Besides, are you prepared to incur legal expenses for a challenge to the judge’s ruling? Mr. Daniels, inform your client that legal aid would not be available for that kind of action.”

  “Piss on him. We’ll hire our own lawyer. We’ve got money coming.”

  “You do understand the trust is untouchable? Even if something were to happen to Ari before her eighteenth birthday, it would pass to Arielle Zajac, you could not access it.”

  “Hair-eee-fucking-it. How fucking stupid are you?” She looks at me. “Too good for the name I gave you? Get in the car—now.”

  “If you’re not prepared to abide by the terms of custody then Ar—Miss Appleton will be returned to the Guthries and another court date will be set. And I assure you Judge Learner is not a patient man.”

  Mum stands. “Richard.”

  “Let’s hear the deal first, Theresa. How much if we let her stay with the sister?”

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Lukeman cranks his head. “Nothing. The allowance goes to her guardian wherever she’ll be living.”

  “Fine, pack your bags, kid.”

  Jacquie asks, “How much would they get for expenses?”

  “Based on meals will often be at the store with the Zajacs and that Ari works and pays for clothes and incidentals, they’d be entitled to two hundred and twenty-five per month. And that’s a generous calculation.”

  “Mum, I’ll give you two-fifty if you let her stay with me.”

  “Now what kind of a mother would let her child live on the street, ’cause Missy, that’s exactly where you’re heading.”

  “Give it a rest. You can’t touch the store. You can’t touch the money. Now, do you really want to lose your sisters, your girls, and your grandkids over this? We’ve all had it with you.”

  Jacquie has been holding her tongue for my sake but the “crawling all over daddy” remark lit a fuse and it’s nearly reached all the sewer gas. “You move our sister into that house and you lose everything.”

  Mum coils tighter than I’ve ever seen her. “You girls, you’ve never had anything but—”

  “Shut the fuck up. What we had was a vacuous bitch who traded her heart for a bottle, her brain for pills, her conscience for men, and her girls for what? A few stinking bucks? You are the most pathetic—”

  Mr. legal aid tilts a file that lifts a clipboard that topples a jug half-full of water. He sums up while mopping up. “The child’s placement with the Guthries is in effect until December thirty-first. The parties have until then to settle on the terms. Mrs. Zajac, I strongly suggest that you follow the court’s recommendations.”

  I’ve always counted on a certain civility, a ladylike load of shit with Mum. Now we have us a Mrs. Hyde situation. She says, “Fuck off,” giving him the finger, and clicks out.

  I want to stay at Birchmount High so bad my bologna on rye is performing a lead-footed mazurka in my gut. I cling to Chase like a chicken headed for the block. He lifts my chin. “Go get everything sorted.”

  I start with phys. ed. I’ve missed twice as many classes as I’ve attended. My teacher looks up from tying her sneaker while perched on a basketball. “I really need a pass, Miss Mitchell. The Board won’t give me permission to live out of the area and go here if I’m failing any
subject.”

  “I know you’ve had a tough term, Appleton, but I can’t assign a mark for PE based on two essays.” She picks up another basketball so easily it’s like her fingers are sticky. “Even with giving you perfect they’re still only forty percent of your mark.”

  “I’ve jumped through legal hoops. Does that count?”

  “Three marks. You need a fifty for a pass.”

  “I’ve balled my eyes out.”

  “Five marks.”

  “I bent over and kissed a judge’s ass.”

  “Seven marks.”

  “I outran a cop and two teenage boys over twelve blocks.”

  She falls off her basketball laughing and I end up with a charitable sixty-three.

  Next stop is the newspaper office. Mrs. Russell sighs at my resignation, “Ari, you’ll be back next term.”

  “Even if I am, I’ll have over an hour travel each way. Between work and school you won’t get much out of me.”

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  The school secretary calls on the intercom, “Excuse me. Is Ari Appleton there?”

  Mrs. Russell pushes the button and leans into the speaker. “Yes.”

  “Her sisters are in the office.”

  “Here she comes.” Mrs. Russell turns back to me and worries, “Is everything okay?”

  “We’re taking Jillianne out to celebrate graduating her design course.”

  “Oh, isn’t that lovely. Go, have a wonderful time.”

  I don’t believe in cosmic bullies plotting Applegeddon. We’re just chemical reactors: rotting, decomposing . . . and we’re susceptible to worms and the like, but today feels like one of those seed-sprouting green days in the dead of winter.

  Jillianne and I snuggle in the little half seat as she shows me her portfolio, plump with costume designs. “These are spectacularly electrified.” It’s my first glimpse of what dreams have been tucked under her scared-bird feathers.