On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light

by Cordelia Strube

  “Heaven help us,” Mrs. Pungartnik gasps.

  Mr. Chubak scratches his bald spot. “Didn’t an escaped cobra asphyxiate two kids a while back?”

  “You’ve got to ask yourself,” Mr. Shotlander says, “what this country’s coming to when we’ve got buildings full of snakes. Too many goddang foreigners.”

  Mr. Bhanmattie in his Walmart smock and Taj, the janitor, step out of the elevator with a Sikh policeman.

  Mrs. Pungartnik stomps towards them. “Did you shoot the snake?”

  “No, ma’am,” the Sikh policeman says. “Animal Services will be here shortly to take care of it.”

  “Will they kill it?”

  “Most likely they will take it to a reptile zoo.”

  “A reptile zoo?” Mrs. Pungartnik clutches her crumpled Kleenexes. “Who ever heard of such a thing? When will they get here? What if it goes down the toilet again and into the plumbing and slithers up somebody else’s toilet?”

  Harriet hopes the python snakes up her toilet while Gennedy’s taking a crap. He reads John Grisham novels on the shitter, even though he complains that John Grisham “doesn’t tell it like it is.”

  Mrs. Schidt wheels out of the elevator with Coco on her lap. “What if the snake swallows my dog?”

  Mrs. Butts points her cane at the Sikh policeman. “Or my cats? It could poison Lindy and Lukey.”

  “We do not believe it is a poisonous snake, ma’am. Most certainly it will not eat your pets. Most likely it will be afraid of them.”

  “Not of Coco,” Mrs. Schidt says, kissing her skinny white dog with yellow eyes before spotting Harriet. “And where have you been, young lady? No call, no note, what am I supposed to think?”

  “My brother’s in the hospital. I had to stay with my dad.”

  She wheels up to Harriet. “And you couldn’t call? What’s the matter with you, you careless and untrustworthy girl. Shirking responsibility as usual.”

  “I wasn’t shirking anything. And anyway, you don’t pay me enough.” It just slips out. She’d intended to broach the subject carefully, mentioning the ad offering group walks for $16 and private walks for $20. Mrs. Schidt trembles and her lips move but no words come out.

  Mrs. Pungartnik pinches the Sikh policeman. “What in heaven’s name should we do to keep safe?”

  “I would recommend looking first before you go into your washroom. Most likely the python was a pet that was let go. People buy them then discover taking care of them is too much trouble.”

  Taj, who spends more time on the street selling pirated DVDs than doing his janitorial duties, holds up his hands in an effort to quiet the seniors. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, it is all taken care of. Not to worry. No more snakes.” He escorts the policeman out.

  “Just cockroaches,” Mrs. Pungartnik grumbles. “I killed two yesterday.”

  “Spray vinegar,” Harriet suggests.

  “None of this is good for my ulcer,” Mrs. Butts says. “The doctor made me go to the drugstore to buy some medicine and it’s making me sick to my stomach. I haven’t eaten a thing all day and the cats aren’t eating either.” The other seniors edge away from Mrs. Butts as she rambles on about her cats and her various imagined illnesses. Most of the seniors have chronic illnesses and are desperate for a cure. Mrs. Butts is desperate for an illness. “I put out their special food with the fat in it, and they won’t touch it. I even put out fish and chicken. And Lindy won’t touch her milk. Now Lindy has a nervous condition but Lukey, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He never stops eating but today he even refused chicken-flavoured Temptations. Oh and Harriet . . .” She switches into nice little old lady mode which means she wants something. “My doctor says my iron’s low and I should eat prunes. Would it be too much trouble for you to go to the store and get me prunes and kitty litter? Oh and Lukey stepped on the remote again. I don’t know how he got to it, I put it up high on the shelf, but there’s no stopping him. Anyway I’m hoping you’ll reprogram it again.” The elevator doors open and Harriet makes a run for it.

  It’s obvious Lynne has not been home because newspapers, legal pads and clothes are strewn everywhere. Gennedy never puts anything back, even though he reprimands Harriet for never putting anything back. He said he would be home, but the computer is off. Harriet does a quick recon of the apartment to ascertain that she is alone then says, “Hubba hubba,” before searching for her glue gun. Gennedy wouldn’t have trashed it because he’s too cheap to throw anything out. She starts with their bedroom, digging around in the closet crammed with dress shoes Lynne wore at the bank. Harriet tries on several pairs, pulling up her jeans to see if they flatter her ankles. Gran says a good pair of pumps should flatter your ankles. Since she stopped working at the bank Lynne wears Uggs with skinny jeans in winter, and shorts and flip-flops in summer. Gran thinks it’s a crime that Lynne never wears skirts and heels anymore. “That girl’s got my gams,” she insists. “She should show them off. It’s a crime.”

  When she can’t find the glue gun in the closet, Harriet rummages through their dresser drawers, avoiding Gennedy’s red Speedo that reminds her she almost drowned last summer. Gennedy had the brilliant idea to drive them to Wasaga Beach. His fifteen-year-old Corolla overheated, cutting their beach time short. This turned out to be a good thing because Gennedy was wearing the Speedo. Every other male, young and old, had the decency to wear swimming trunks, but Gennedy was tossing the Frisbee in bikini briefs. Harriet took her noodle far out into the water so as not to be associated with him. Lynne, also in a bikini, looked all right, despite having had two kids. Irwin, masterminding a lopsided sandcastle, suddenly realized Harriet wasn’t present and began hollering that she was drowning. Harriet, too far out to hear him, surmised what was going on because Lynne and Gennedy were running up and down the beach with their eyes on the water. Harriet could have waved but she felt sleepy, lulled by the gentle pull of Georgian Bay, and lifting an arm required too much effort. She thought of the people of the First Nations, and birchbark canoes, and what the shoreline must have looked like two hundred years ago before the white man trashed it. She was thinking she was born in the wrong place at the wrong time, but then remembered what Mr. Bhanmattie said. She had been born in her current body for a reason: a lesson had to be learned. It didn’t feel like she was learning anything. The same shit kept happening. A wave from a motorboat slapped her in the face and knocked the noodle from her grasp. Pushed under she allowed the water to close over her, enticed by the possibility of drowning—of being free of Gennedy and school and sacks of shit. But her lungs fought back, forcing her to bob to the surface in time to see Gennedy speed-crawling in her direction. He’d been on his high-school swim team, probably in the same red Speedo. She tried to swim away from him, kicking frantically, but her legs tired.

  “Grab the noodle,” Gennedy bellowed as he splashed towards her. When he reached her, he looked frightened, and Harriet felt sorry for him until he said, “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” He grabbed her with one arm and hauled her towards shore. The noodle bobbed out of reach, but he refused to swim back for it. It rolled on the waves, moving farther and farther away into a new life while Harriet returned to the old. She had never been skin to skin with Gennedy before. At Christmas they would exchange an awkward fully-clothed hug, but feeling his hairy chest heaving against her back, she felt sick and puked. “Keep your head up,” he ordered. “Don’t swallow any more water.”

  As soon as they made it to shore Lynne wrapped her in a towel on the beach blanket, rubbing her back to warm her. “My precious angel, you scared me so much, oh my lord, I’m so glad you’re safe.” She kissed her repeatedly and it was almost as wonderful as when Harriet fell from the tree. Except that Irwin crawled up like a bad puppy and rested his big head on her thigh. “I love you, Haarree. Don’t ever do that again, pleeeze don’t. That was sooo scary.” Gennedy sat down, wrapping his arms around Lynne
and Irwin, transforming them into the picture of a happy family. He never let Harriet swim without a life jacket after that. For this reason there is no way she is going to any beach with him this summer. She refuses to be the only eleven-year-old wearing a life jacket.

  She searches their bedside tables. Two books sit on her mother’s: If I’m So Smart Why Do I Keep Messing Up? and When I Say No, I Feel Guilty. Face creams and makeup clutter the drawer. Harriet scores some cherry cough drops, forbidden due to the buzz she gets from red dye. She shakes two out of the box and sucks on them while digging through squeezed- out tubes and busted eye shadow containers. Lynne never throws out makeup because she’s afraid the new product won’t be as good as the old one. Harriet uses her mother’s forgotten remnants of lipsticks, blush and eye shadows in her mixed media. She pockets a sparkly fuchsia lip gloss and some moss-green shadow before sliding across the bed to Gennedy’s bedside table. The only book on it is The Four-Hour Work Week. Not wanting to touch his stuff, Harriet jabs a pen into the contents of his drawer to fish for the glue gun; nothing but socks, aftershave, tightie whities and condoms. Harriet pulls one out of its wrapper and unrolls it, trying to figure out if the condoms mean Lynne and Gennedy are no longer trying to conceive. The box was shoved to the back, suggesting it’s old. While she’s checking for an expiration date, several condoms fall between the bedside table and the bed. Harriet kneels down to reach for them and spots the handle of her glue gun under the bed. “Tally-ho!” she says, grabbing it. She collects the condoms, stuffs them in the box and shoves it to the back of the drawer. With red dye coursing through her veins, she charges to her room to resume work on And I Think to Myself, What a Wonderful World, a mixed-media project she had to abandon when Gennedy stole her gun. She needed it to glue delicate things like pebbles, pieces of broken glass, safety pins and a discarded syringe. She was able to glue the cheese grater and the sieve with LePage’s, but making the small objects stick was impossible. She plugs in the gun and waits for the glue to heat, listening for Gennedy. When she doesn’t hear him she darts to their bedroom again, takes two more cherry cough drops and hurriedly searches her mother’s jewellery box for beaded bracelets. Lynne buys them from street vendors, wears the bracelets for a summer, then forgets about them. Harriet finds three Lynne hasn’t worn for at least two summers and takes them to her room to cut and sort by colour in small yogourt containers. She smells the glue melting and says, “Cha cha cha,” while digging around in her feather collection. She found a black and white woodpecker feather last week and has been eager to glue it onto And I Think to Myself, What a Wonderful World—between the syringe and the cigarette butts. She’s not sure where to put the condom and decides to save it. Rushing mixed media can destroy the entire project because, once items are glued, she can’t just paint over them. She picks up the gun, inhaling the fumes. It’s when she’s applying a thin line of glue to the feather that she hears Gennedy’s key in the lock.

  “Hello? Harriet?”

  “I’ll be right out.” She puts the gun down and scurries out of her room, closing the door.

  “So you made it,” Gennedy says. “That’s tootin’. Sorry I’m late. Things got complicated.”

  “No worries.” Harriet’s not sure if she looks as buzzed as she feels.

  “I picked up some pizza, are you hungry?”

  “Oh yes please.”

  “Come eat.”

  “I’ll be there in two secs.” She hurries back to her room to unplug the gun and hide it under her bed.

  “You look flushed, Harriet. Have you been out in the sun?”

  “Totally.”

  “Excellent.” He puts a pizza slice on a plate and hands it to her. “Sit down, stay awhile.” He sniffs a couple of times. “Do you smell something burning?”

  Harriet smells the glue gun. “I don’t smell anything. Did you just come from the hospital?”

  “I did.”

  “Can I call Mum?”

  “After lunch. What have you got planned for today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? Because I just ran into Nina and she said you’re going to the Eaton Centre with Darcy and her dad.”

  “Not till later.”

  “Don’t you think you might have asked our permission first?”

  “You weren’t here. Can I go? Please?”

  “What do we know about this Buck guy?”

  “He’s really nice. He took us to Canada’s Wonderland, remember?”

  “Oh that’s right. He’s a truck driver, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, sometimes he parks in the back. It’s got a really big cab. He sleeps in it.”

  “Is that so? Well, here’s the thing. Your mum and I don’t understand why you so badly wanted to go to your dad’s two days ago and then, all of a sudden, you wanted to come home again.”

  “He and Uma are mid-cycle.”

  “You knew that before you went. What happened while you were there?”

  Harriet suspects the adults have discussed what happened, how she lacks compassion, is uncooperative and mistreated Uma. The adults go through the motions of asking her what happened but they’ve already made up their minds. “Nothing happened.”

  “Harriet, why is it that whenever I ask you about what happened at school or at camp, or anywhere in fact, you tell me ‘nothing.’ How would you feel if every time you asked me what happened during my day, I said ‘nothing’?”

  “I never ask you what happened during your day.”

  “That’s because you have no interest in anything but yourself and your own pursuits. Granted you’re a child and therefore egocentric, nonetheless, you might try and show some small consideration for others.” He is in what Lynne calls litigator mode. Harriet tries to appear penitent as she wolfs pizza. The red dye has made her very hungry. The phone rings and Harriet lunges for it to avoid further cross-examination. It’s Mrs. Butts stoned on painkillers and pretending to be a nice old lady.

  “Is that Harriet? So sorry to bother you, dear, but do you think you could come over and reprogram my remote? I can’t get anything on the TV and Roger’s playing.” Mrs. Butts is obsessed with Roger Federer, says he looks like a Greek god. She spreads out on her couch, spooning ice cream while murmuring, “Oooooh look at him. He’s perrrfect, like a Greek god, ooooooh just perrrfect.”

  “I’ll ask Gennedy.” She knows he won’t forbid her from helping an old lady. “Mrs. Butts needs me to reprogram her remote. The cat stepped on it. Can I go over?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be right there, Mrs. Butts.”

  “Oh you’re a darling, thank you so much.”

  Harriet grabs another slice and speeds to Mrs. Butts’. After reprogramming the remote she takes the junkie’s money to buy prunes and kitty litter. She lingers in the lobby, trawling for more orders.

  Mr. Chubak paces, gripping his red suspenders. “Sometimes I wake up, and I turn on the tube and there’s nothing on. Not one effing thing worth watching. So I turn it off again.”

  “What a world.” Mr. Shotlander smooths down tufts of hair on his head, glancing at Mrs. Chipchase knitting in the corner. Mrs. Chipchase knits baby clothes, slippers, mittens, hats and scarves for the church bazaar. She doesn’t have any children and Harriet wonders how it feels to endlessly knit for other people’s babies. Mrs. Chipchase taught Harriet to crochet, and even gave her some yarn to make toques for Lynne, Gennedy and Irwin. In way of thanks, Harriet never charges her for going to the store.

  “Hi, Mrs. Chipchase, can I get you anything from Mr. Hung’s?”

  “Oh, how kind of you, sweetheart. I’d like some Life Savers, butterscotch if Mr. Hung has them.”

  “Hey, Esther,” Mr. Shotlander says. “Do you mind telling me what you paid for that walker?”

  Mrs. Chipchase goes on knitting. “My nephew bought it at the Goodwill for twenty-five d
ollars.”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “I would never mess with you, Mr. Shotlander.”

  “Do you have any idea what one of those would cost new?”

  Mrs. Chipchase shakes her head, still focused on her knitting.

  “I’d say new that would run you at least two hundred.” Mr. Shotlander pats the walker’s upholstered seat. “A nice seat you got here, Esther.”

  Mrs. Chipchase goes on knitting. Harriet knows she was gorgeous when she was young because her wedding photo hangs on her living room wall. Mrs. Chipchase looks unsure in the picture, although she’s smiling. She never talks about Mr. Chipchase but in the wedding photo he looks very sombre.

  “Mr. Chubak,” Harriet asks, “do you want some ice cream?”

  “You bet your sweet bippy.” Mr. Chubak introduced Harriet to the sixties comedy show Laugh-in on YouTube and insists “they don’t make funny like they used to.” Mr. Chubak was a protester in the sixties and thrown in jail eight times.

  “Mango Vanilla Marble?” Harriet reaches into her back pockets for baggies and Post-its to record the transactions.

  “The girl’s telepathic.” Mr. Chubak sucks the straw on his juice box. Daily, in the lobby, Mr. Chubak eats an orange and drinks orange juice from a juice box to keep up his vitamin C.

  Mr. Shotlander feels around in his pockets. “I could use some barbecue chips, and a Diet Coke.”

  “Only if you stop ratting on me,” Harriet says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not shopping for you if you keep telling my mother’s boyfriend my business.”

  “What business?”

  “How and what I do with my art projects is my business. If you keep squealing on me I will no longer provide you with service.”

  “You have been told, Shotlander,” Mr. Zilberschmuck says. Mr. Tumicelli hobbles out of the elevator, wheeling his oxygen tank behind him.

  “What happened to you?” Mr. Shotlander asks.

  “I changed my cell number to get some peace and quiet.” Mr. Tumicelli is the only senior with a cell phone. His son married a Dominican girl who programmed “Feliz Navidad ” as Mr. Tumicelli’s ringtone. It rings frequently because Mr. Tumicelli, a retired mechanic, has many relatives who need car repairs. “I’m not giving my number to nobody. Just my kids. That’s it.” He pulls the black overcoat he wears summer and winter around him and sits on one of the leatherette chairs.