Neighbourhood Watch

by Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette

  два

  2

  Early morning. In number 61 of the apartment block, Roxane opens her eyes, looks at the alarm clock. Fuck. Up like a shot. She didn’t wake her up. She’s going to miss the bus. She’s going to miss school. She’s going to miss life.

  Hurry.

  Grabs the clothes on the floor. Yellow sweater, black jeans, two socks. Not matching, doesn’t matter.

  Hurry.

  Kitchen. Opens the fridge, looks … Closes the fridge.

  Her mother’s bedroom, a sliver of light under the door.

  ‘Mom?’

  Louise, sleeping, frowns, pulls the covers over her head. Goddamn headache. Intense.

  Back to sleep.

  Roxane opens the curtains, lets a sunbeam into the grey room.

  Louise pulls the covers over her head.

  Tries to emerge. Can’t.

  Some of yesterday’s smoke hangs in the air. Bits of sun get caught in it. Roxane too, for a second.

  Beer bottles scattered on the floor. Counts them at a glance, fast. Eleven.

  Her mother won’t be getting up. Past eight beers, she doesn’t get up.

  Roxane picks up a few empty bottles, shoves them in her bag, and leaves the bedroom.

  Under the covers, Louise holds her head in her hands.

  * * *

  In number 64 of the apartment block, Mélissa opens her eyes and looks at her little-girl wallpaper. The same skinny princess in a purple dress that’s too long, smiling a washed-out smile at a silly little fawn. The pathetic pair repeats itself all the way up to the ceiling. In six spots in her small bedroom, the princess is cut in half, giving her four eyes. It almost suits her better.

  Tonight, Mélissa is moving into her mother’s room. Because she won’t be back, won’t ever be back. She chose the street. Mélissa prays the winter is deadly cold. Deadly.

  Mélissa is twelve, and starting now she has to give that little girl a kick in the ass. She has to pulverize her, she has to obliterate her. She has to be more adult than the adults, and she is totally fucking capable.

  Yesterday, her stepfather fucked off. Had no one left to fuck, took off.

  Just as well. Don’t need him here.

  Mélissa is twelve and totally fucking capable. More capable than anyone, even.

  She gets up. The boys are already up and in the kitchen, plugged into the PlayStation. They suck up the flat light of the screen: their eyes are straws and their thirst is endless.

  Mélissa feels grown-up. She unplugs the TV, cutting her little brothers off, and they start shouting: ‘Not fair!’ Mélissa puts music on the turntable. 50 Cent, full blast, fuck the neighbours. Fuck her little brothers. Fuck her stepfather. Fuck her mother. A little.

  The boys are still shouting, but they’re harder to hear over the music.

  Mélissa gets dressed. So do they.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  She grabs her things, their things, turns off the light.

  Cold wind outside.

  She breathes.

  * * *

  Steve wakes up in front of the TV, streaks of makeup caked on his face. Cape around his neck, cigarette butt stuck to his face. He crashed right after the match. So tired.

  Kevin is still asleep. This morning, women dressed in pink are stretching. ‘And one, and two, let’s go!’

  Steve grabs the remote. POWER. Bye, ladies. Have fun.

  Corner of the counter. Coffee. Cigarette. Tick-tock of the clock. Two cigarettes. 50 Cent’s bass makes the walls and the little porcelain Dollarama figurines shake. Remains of his wife. As far as he’s concerned, they can shatter.

  Steve pushes the ashtray away. Puts a glass of orange juice on the table, a pill bottle beside it.

  He stretches his back and goes to wake up his kid.

  A blue bedroom. Star Wars wallpaper. Horror movies scattered on the floor. Drawings of wrestlers on the walls. Plush Spiderman, Batman, and Wolverine in Kevin’s arms as he sleeps. Three knocks on the door.

  ‘Get up, Kev!’

  Silence.

  Steve goes in, pulls on the covers. ‘Come on, I gotta go.’

  He leaves. Slams the door. He’s gone.

  Kevin gets up, turns on the computer, stretches, goes to pee.

  Corner of the counter, he drinks the juice and swallows the Ritalin. His eyes sticky, he goes back to his bedroom and picks up his controller.

  Kevin kills bad guys as he gets dressed.

  * * *

  The sun is up on Rue Ontario, which is starting to come to life.

  Meg’s eyes are stinging, her feet are burning. She’s shattered.

  People are going to work. She’s just finished.

  She walks against the traffic on Rue Ontario, bumps into a guy who hates her for a couple of seconds and forgets her just as fast. Usually they like her a little before chucking her aside. Makes for a change.

  She counts her cash as she walks. Ten clients. A good night.

  Store windows go by. White beds with thick duvets, dry aquariums with plastic plants, the laundromat with its sleeping washing machines, where the lonely seek each other out to pair their unpaired socks. At this hour, the stores have no personality. Empty, they’re waiting. Still frames resting until they’re put to use again. Like Meg in the morning.

  Meg likes this brief moment in the day when she stops being an invitation.

  The snow squeaks under her heels, absorbing the weight of her footsteps. The wind is at her back. It’s on her side. It feels good.

  From an anonymous alley, Meg heads into her room. Her cave.

  It’s cold. She undresses under the covers, curls up. Sighs.

  Her big made-up eyes go out for the day.

  * * *

  ‘C’mon, guys. We’re going to be really late!’

  The boys stop at every decorated balcony. Every morning, Mélissa takes them down a different street. Today, it’s Rue Davidson. So far, it’s the best: almost all the houses are decorated.

  The Christmas lights climb high up, winding around staircases and blinking their whole length. It’s pretty.

  At the corner of Rue Adam, there’s an inflatable Santa gyrating, blown up from the inside. He suddenly bends forward, then suddenly bends back, his back broken. Then he starts over. The boys think it’s funny. It’s like Santa’s going to throw up.

  Walking makes a squeak squeak sound. The snow is alive and screams with every footstep. A hurried squeak squeak balcony to balcony. The wind sounds cold too. It has escaped from its bottle, takes off laughing because no one is freer than it.

  Some people are so jealous of the wind, they kill themselves. That’s why more people die in winter.

  ‘Look out!’

  The guy from the depanneur is weaving on his bike with empty cases of beer. Almost ran into them.

  ‘Hey, Santa! Where’d you get your licence, fuck’s sake?’ Mélissa calls out to him.

  Because now it’s up to her to protect her little brothers.

  They’re getting closer to the prostitutes on the street corner. There are always two or three left, even at this hour. They must be freezing, toes crammed in their pointy shoes. Mélissa doesn’t even feel sorry for them. She grabs the boys by the hand and takes a deep breath. She walks by them. Looks without looking. If her mother were there, she would recognize her right away. Even without looking, she would recognize her. Even if she were hiding, she would recognize her. Some things there are no words for. Some things you can’t explain. Close up or far away, blind or dead, if her mother is nearby, Mélissa feels it in her body. And that morning, she’s not there.

  Feeling lighter, Mélissa walks to school without talking.

  * * *

  Standing tall on the stoop of the apartment block, Roxanne waits. She likes being outside better than being inside, even when it’s cold. She swallows air and tries to make rings with the winter vapour that comes out of her mouth. It works.

  In the street, the neighbour is clearing the snow from his c
ar with a broom.

  The yellow school bus is at the end of the street.

  Roxane still takes it even though she’s too old. Her mother, the social worker, the school, the principal, everyone decided for her.

  She could walk, she told them. ‘It’s not far. I could walk.’

  She could take the regular bus too. But they don’t want her to. They’re afraid.

  Plus, the yellow bus is free for dummies. If it’s free …

  ‘Sorry!’

  Kevin bumps into her as he runs by and rushes into the street. He runs to the end of it and disappears around the corner.

  The yellow bus stops in front of Roxane. From the stoop, she looks off into the distance, as if the bus weren’t here for her. ‘Who, me? You came to get me?’ As if it had the wrong girl. She doesn’t keep it up long, because pretty soon the bus starts honking.

  She goes down the steps. One, two, three. Climbs the other steps. One, two, three. The lady says the same hi as every other day, and Roxane doesn’t answer.

  She heads through the bus, which is so long. Walks through it like it’s a hospital corridor under fluorescent lights. She doesn’t want to see the other dummies. They’re gross. She sits beside a guy in a wheelchair. He’s all strapped in, attached so he doesn’t roll away when they take a corner. Everyone on the bus is crazy. They can’t talk or they can’t walk. They drool. They stink.

  The bus drives around Hochelaga picking up trash.

  Roxane looks out the window. She’s not a dummy. She’s not like other kids, but she’s not a dummy.

  Socially maladjusted. That’s her label.

  They didn’t say whether there’s a cure, or whether it’s catching.

  The bus stops in front of the school. She gets off, fast. Always first.

  She crosses the street to the depanneur.

  * * *

  At the depanneur counter, a few bodies waking up. Men and women, hunched so they can’t see too far ahead. They got their cheque, and they’re lining up to scratch for a million. Straightening up a little, they can see they haven’t won. But for just a second before seeing the result, the second when they picture another life for themselves somewhere in the sun or in someone’s loving arms, just to savour that moment before the ‘Better luck next time!’ they line up, they pay, and they scratch for a glimpse of promise in the day-to-day slush.

  Roxane takes the empty beer bottles out of her bag, puts them on the dep guy’s counter, and he counts them at a glance. ‘Ninety cents,’ he says.

  Roxane gets a May West. Her eyes meet Mélissa’s, the neighbour with the snot-nosed little brothers stuck to her like glue, their noses in a bag of chips, in a salty hole. If they could burrow their entire bodies in it, they would. Roxane looks at Mélissa hiding behind her overgrown bangs and thinks she’s no better off, because her mom’s a prostitute.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Roxane exchanges her beer bottles for a May West, and for two seconds considers herself lucky.

  * * *

  The bell has rung. Kevin is lined up in the schoolyard. All the other kids are at least two heads taller than him. He would give his PlayStation to grow a bit more, particularly when he’s lined up. It’s cold, but the teachers leave them standing around in the schoolyard before going in so they’re in order, so they’re properly lined up.

  Kevin gets whacked in the back of the head. He turns around. Laughter erupts from the lineup. Kevin pulls his toque down on his head, turns again to see who hit him. Chews on his lip. Gets hit a second time. Harder this time. Bites his lip, ouch, ouch, ouch in his head. Tears well up. Don’t start crying, you poof. Kevin doesn’t turn around and this time hopes with all his heart that the line will move move move … His toque flies to the back of the line. It’s like everyone is laughing, everyone is doubled over.‘Go on! Go get your hat, headcase!’ ‘Not moving anymore?’‘Put your pill in the wrong hole?’ They’re laughing hard. Kevin walks back along the line, staring as far into the distance as he can. His lip is bleeding, he’s holding back tears – the line is long, endless. At the very end, a hand holds out his toque. It’s Roxane, the one who talks to herself. He grabs it from her and jams it on his head. That’s when they decide to get the line moving.

  * * *

  Roxane walks against the flow in the hallway. Just like in life. Everyone is heading to class, rushing in the other direction. She weaves her way toward the library at the other end of the hall. At her desk, Ms. Bilodeau barely lifts her head, pretending to read the dictionary. Ms. Bilodeau stalls at the letter L because she is dreaming of Love.

  ‘Hello, Roxane.’

  Every morning, Roxane goes by the library. She knows that Ms. Bilodeau is hiding a Harlequin romance behind her dictionary.‘Because anything is still possible within these pages,’ she explained to Roxane one day, visibly moved.

  The principal isn’t romantic, so Ms. Bilodeau pretends to read the dictionary during busy periods.

  ‘Hi, Ms. Bilodeau.’

  Roxane walks past her, heads toward the aisle. Her aisle. The one that says ‘World.’ She walks back and forth a few times, dragging her index finger over the spines of the books that are sticking out. She likes the sound. A gentle sound, like a caress. She stops finally at the Rs.

  R, as in Russia.

  She’s looked through all the books on Russia. More than once, even. This time, she chooses the big red book. The pictures are in colour, and there is Russian vocabulary at the end. She already knows a few words. Snieg means snow, oblako means clouds, zima means winter, louna means …

  The second bell rings. Time for class.

  Roxane hugs the red book to her chest and heads to the counter.

  Ms. Bilodeau records the book. Stamps the card. ‘ Two weeks,’ she says.

  Roxane’s eyes skim the yellowed pages of the romance novel, poorly hidden behind the dictionary. To each her own journey. Roxane puts the book in her bag and leaves.

  ‘Hey, dumdum, you’re on the wrong floor!’

  Laughter.

  The library is on the floor for regular classes. They know how to read. Roxane goes back down to her class, one floor down. To sixth grade for mental cases.

  * * *

  Today they’re making a nativity scene out of modelling clay.

  Kevin hands out images of Jesus’s family, with the sheep, the grey donkey, and the rest of the gang.

  On her desk, Mélissa draws Mary from the pile. She is dressed all in white. Her hands are long and folded over each other.

  ‘I want to do her.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Mélissa and Roxane root through the jars of modelling clay.

  ‘There’s no white.’

  ‘Fuck. There’s no white.’

  ‘Miss? There’s no white for the Blessed Virgin!’

  ‘Then choose another colour, girls.’

  They choose red. The modelling clay smells like fruit punch.

  Roxane makes a head. Mélissa a body.

  ‘She needs boobs.’

  ‘Yeah, big boobs!’

  Each girl rolls a ball in the palm of her hand. Mélissa’s ball is bigger than Roxane’s, so Roxane adds a little modelling clay till Mary’s boobs are even. Mélissa sticks them above the stomach and adds a lemon nipple to each one.

  Roxane makes a yellow veil, while Mélissa fashions a long butt crack. There. The girls assess their work. It’s like a mini-snowwoman with big fruit-punch boobs and lemon nipples.

  The girls want to eat Mary because she smells so good. Mélissa bites off her head. Surprised, Roxane starts laughing and bites off her legs. Marie is legless and decapitated: the girls are doubled over laughing. Their teeth full of modelling clay, they are sent out into the hall.

  * * *

  Louise gets up and sits in front of the TV. Women are cooking. A meat dish, something with apricots. In her bathrobe, Louise rolls cigarettes one after the other while they roll out pie crust, talking about the resurgence of tourism in Cuba. Eyes
staring into space, fingers on the roller. Goddamn headache. She takes a swig of Coke.

  ‘Stuff the apricots in the holes.’

  She lights a cigarette.

  Louise, alone and small in the dirty white living room. Her feet in old Fred Caillou slippers. She sniffs.

  ‘Then mince the garlic.’

  10:20. Recess. Louise thinks of Roxane. She must be playing outside. With her friends. Maybe. Outside with her friends.

  Louise stubs out her cigarette, pulls up the covers, and curls up on the sofa in a little ball. For a moment, she tries to remember her daughter’s laugh. The way it erupts. A laugh all her own.

  ‘Put the meat pie in the oven at 350° and … ’ Shut up. She turns off the TV.

  Closes her eyes. She falls asleep, her hands on her head.

  * * *

  Kathy and Kelly.

  A body rolled up in fabric underneath winter.

  ‘I’d almost like to be a tourtière!’

  A raspy voice, amused, hiding under thick layers of clothes.

  A square of cardboard set in front of a pawnshop. In the window, presiding over the other objects for sale, a display of televisions is precariously balanced. All the screens show a tourtière baking in the oven.

  ‘Hey, Kelly. D’you get it? I’d almost like to be a tourtière! Check it out, it looks nice and toasty!’

  On the street corner, Kelly watches the cars like a cat on the prowl, squeegee in hand and claws extended.

  Around Kathy, the dogs doze, frozen. Kathy shakes the cold, empty beer mug; not one penny this morning. And yet normally when it’s cold …

  She looks up at the tourtières in the pawnshop window. Forgets where she is, can almost smell the cinnamon coming from the TVS, the crust darkened by the browned butter, the little squares of wet potatoes and ground meat still a little pink.

  Kelly joins Kathy on the cardboard square, the two forms become one; the dogs slip under the covers with them. Kathy and Kelly curl up in each other’s arms, suddenly richer than the rich.

  From the other side of the street, all that can be seen is a pile of fabric in front of Madame Taillefer’s fifteen pink kitchens. On the ground, an empty metal mug.