“They’re fighting.”
“I know.”
“Will you snuggle with me?”
“It’s morning. You can’t go to sleep yet.”
“I’m really pooped. Please, can we snuggle?”
Harriet doesn’t want to do this. She wants to work on the leopard and make escape money off the seniors to get away from Lynne and Gennedy. “Okay.” She lies back, making room for him on the couch, adjusting cushions around his bony frame.
“They never fight at the hospital,” he says. “How come they fight here?”
“They’ll stop soon. Go to sleep.”
He rests his head on her chest and immediately she feels his speedy heart beating into her ribs. Her knotted heart loosens slightly. His breathing slows and it occurs to her that he might be dying right this second, and what a gentle way this would be to go, not shaken by a seizure, with eyes rolling, foaming at the mouth—shitting himself—but gently coasting into another form of matter.
Twelve
They wake Irwin for grilled cheese but he doesn’t eat much. Lynne and Gennedy exchange worried looks. Lynne cuts off the bread crusts and holds a piece of sandwich in front of Irwin’s mouth.
“He’s not hungry,” Harriet says.
Lynne doesn’t lower her hand. “He has to put weight back on.”
“Then let him eat what he wants. What do you want to eat, buddy?”
Irwin, uneasy at the centre of conflict, tries to sit straighter and chew the sandwich. “I like this.”
“No you don’t,” Harriet says. “Too hard to swallow, right? How about some chocolate pudding? Do you want me to get some from Mr. Hung’s? With marshmallows?”
Irwin looks apprehensively at Lynne to determine if this is allowed.
“There is no nutrition in instant pudding,” Lynne says. “Please try to eat a little more, peanut, just another bite for Mummy.”
“He doesn’t want it,” Harriet says. “You’re making him sick.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Gennedy booms.
“He is my business. He’s my brother.”
“Oh, so suddenly you care. Get out the Hallmark cards.”
Lynne slams her hand on the table. “Can you two stop bickering for one second?”
“You two were bickering all morning,” Harriet says. “Are only adults allowed to bicker?”
“Where did you learn this disrespect?” Gennedy demands.
“You get what you give.” Harriet stands up. “I’m not hungry either.”
“Haarreee, pleeeze don’t go!”
“I have to. Mr. Shotlander needs my help with his computer.” She has no intention of helping the old snake.
“Will you come right back?” Irwin clings to her wrist.
Gennedy glowers at Lynne. “So that’s it? You’re just going to let her go?”
“It’s easier when she’s gone. Let her go if she wants.”
Being talked about as though she is not in the room, and being referred to as she who is better gone, squeezes Harriet’s heart but she pulls her hand free from her brother and keeps pushing one foot in front of the other.
“Haarreee!”
“I’ll be back soon.”
Hands on hips, Gennedy says, “Be back here for dinner, young lady.”
Mrs. Butts is waiting for her. Harriet believes the old biddy hears everything through the wall dividing their units and times her cane-tapping forays into the corridor accordingly.
“Harriet, you won’t believe what happened. I was so upset. I was having my glass of scotch the way I do every now and then. And I’d just poured it out, and must have looked away for a second, and when I looked back, Lukey’d knocked the glass over. I was so upset. That scotch costs eighty-nine dollars a bottle. It’s my treat. Every now and then I buy myself a bottle of scotch and that cat, that devil, knocked it over and I can’t bend down to clean it up because of my back. Heaven knows what it’s doing to the carpet. I’ll never get the smell out. This is not good for my ulcer. Can you get some soap and water and scrub it?”
“For five bucks.”
“Five dollars?”
“Take it or leave it.” Harriet heads for the elevator.
“You are incorrigible. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. All this talk about money.”
“Money talks.”
“All right then, all right.”
Harriet follows her into the apartment crowded with knickknacks and Christmas ornaments Mrs. Butts never takes down because it hurts her back. Usually the apartment smells of cat piss but now it stinks of scotch. Lukey winds himself around Mrs. Butts’ legs. “Bad cat. Yes you are. You’re a bad cat. Badsy, badsy. Now shoo.” She leads Harriet to the spilled scotch. “He just wants to make trouble. It’s all a game to him.” Lukey meows at her, opening his mouth wide. “I don’t want to talk to you. You’re a bad cat. Shoo. I should give you away is what I should do. But who would have you?”
Harriet finds a dishrag, a bucket and a bottle of Mr. Clean under the sink. She fills the bucket.
“What happened to your shoe, Harriet?”
“I cut a hole to make room for my toe. It’s swollen.” Her toe is turning purple and leaking more pus. Kneeling on the carpet to scrub the scotch puts pressure on it but Harriet endures the pain for the five bucks. That’s almost half the price of the mongoose bristle paintbrush she needs for blending.
“Oh, I had a swollen toe once.” Mrs. Butts sits in her wingchair covered in cat hair. “I went to see so many doctors and not one of them could tell me what was wrong with me. Some of them even had the nerve to tell me my toe wasn’t swollen, that it looked normal. Can you believe it? There I was with a swollen toe, and I couldn’t get one doctor to help. I am the patient, I told them, I know what my toe should look like and it shouldn’t look like this.” Lukey winds around her legs again. “Shoo, bad cat, I don’t want to talk to you, go away, you’re a devil. I don’t know why I put up with you.” Lukey sharpens his claws on the wingchair. “Stop that! You’re a terror. Bad cat. Well, I certainly wasn’t leaving the hospital until I had an X-ray, I requested an X-ray to see if anything was broken. Can you believe the doctor never even called me with the results? I went all the way down to the hospital and waited in line for an X-ray, and the doctor didn’t have the decency to call me and tell me the results. I was so upset I called his office and demanded answers. Well, you know what his secretary said? She said if there’d been a problem they would have called me. Can you believe it? They think they can treat me poorly because I’m a senior. I wrote a letter to the head of the hospital.”
“Done,” Harriet says.
“Already? Did you sniff it?”
“Doesn’t smell anymore. Five dollars please.”
“Goodness gracious. You don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Well now, just a minute.” Mrs. Butts peers intently at the wet spot on the carpet, poking it with her cane and sniffing. “Are you sure it doesn’t smell?”
“Positive. I have to go.”
“Why are you always in such a rush?”
“My brother’s sick. I have to get him pudding.”
Holding Coco on a leash, Clayton Rumph scratches his balls by the elevator. He flips Harriet both fingers. “I’m da shit between da bun, yo. I’m da hot sauce. You’re nothing, yo. Yo da grease on da grill, bitch.”
“Back up, mothafucka,” Harriet says. “Or I’m gonna rock yo shit.”
He jangles what Harriet surmises are Mrs. Schidt’s loonies and toonies in his pocket then points to his crotch. “She’s into me, bitch.”
Harriet takes the fire stairs. Mindy’s smoking in the stairwell, drinking a Brown Cow. “Hi, hon.” She is the only person who calls Harriet hon. It makes her feel special.
“You really shouldn’t b
e smoking in the building.”
“I can’t leave the kids long, and Bhanmattie goes bat shit if I do it on the balcony.” She pats the stair beside her. “Take a pew. You don’t look too good.” Mindy puts her arm around her, and Harriet relaxes into her warmth, even though she stinks of cigarettes and Kahlúa. “Hon, sometimes you remind me of the little match girl. Do you know that story? She’s always looking in people’s windows. You remind me of her.”
“She freezes to death.”
“I don’t mean you are her, hon. It’s just you’re so skinny and on the run all the time. What’s with your toe?”
“I have an ingrown toenail.”
“It looks bad. Are you putting disinfectant on it?”
“It’s no big deal. I get them all the time.”
“Then how come you look so sad, hon. Here.” She takes a pink scarf from her neck and drapes it around Harriet’s. “You look pretty in pink. Why won’t you let me do you a makeover?” Harriet has refused Mindy’s makeovers in the past because nothing bores her more than putting on makeup. But today she would like someone to take care of her.
“Okay,” she says.
Mindy’s apartment is furnished primarily with large stuffed animals Boyd, her crackhead husband, won at the Ex. The whole family goes every year, and Boyd is an expert at hitting targets. He grew up in Detroit and shot squirrels. He thinks Canada is full of candy asses who can’t shoot for shit. In the photos of Boyd and Mindy at the Ex, Mindy looks adoringly at Boyd while he stares grimly into the camera as though he’d rather be shooting squirrels.
“Just a sec, hon. I have to make sure Brianna’s asleep.”
Mindy’s sons, Conner and Taylor, sprawl in front of the TV playing Xbox. Harriet’s never seen them not riveted to a TV or computer screen. Conner’s a year older than Irwin, and Taylor a year younger. Irwin told Harriet they hold juice boxes against their crotches in the kindergarten yard and ask the girls if they want to suck their straws.
“Okay, beauty.” Mindy rubs her hands together. “Let’s do it.” She leads Harriet into the kitchen and starts pulling tubes and tiny jars from her makeup bag. “What kind of colours do you like?”
“Dark.”
“But you’re fair. We can’t go too dark. When did you last wash your face?”
“Can’t remember.”
“It shows. Let’s start with a cleanser then use a clarifying lotion.” Mindy worked at the cosmetic counter at Shoppers Drug Mart. When her boss got tired of her getting beat up, he cut her hours. She’s never been officially laid off; he just doesn’t put her on the schedule.
Mindy drags a stool to the kitchen sink. “Sit,” she says and starts lathering Harriet’s face. “You’ve got good skin so far. Wait till serious puberty starts.” Harriet closes her eyes, enjoying Mindy’s gentle circular motions. “Okay, rinse it off.” Harriet bends over the sink, throwing water on her face. Mindy hands her a towel. “Pat dry, never rub.”
Conner and Taylor start fighting. Mindy runs into the living room. “Shut it!” she screams, which wakes Brianna, who bawls. Mindy carries her into the kitchen and pushes her into the high chair. “Want some Goldfish, Bree?” She shakes some of the tiny fish-shaped crackers into a plastic bowl. “Yum, yum, Goldfish, sweetie.” She sets the bowl in front of Brianna, who grabs it and empties it on the floor. “Very funny,” Mindy says, draining her Brown Cow. “I swear to god, if I’d known what I was in for, no way would I have had kids.” Mr. Shotlander says she’s always got a bun in the oven because she’s after baby bonus cheques from the government. As Conner and Taylor continue to squabble, Mindy ups the volume on her iPod speakers, and Brianna tosses the plastic bowl across the room. “Bad girl,” Mindy says, slapping the baby’s hand, causing her to howl. “Throwing bad, Bree. Eat your fish.” She pops a fish into Brianna’s gaping mouth, looks at her phone and texts.
“I should go,” Harriet says.
“Not on your life. This is girl time. Conner, Taylor, come and get your sister. Sherry’s taking you to the park with Fraser. She’s waiting downstairs.”
“Oh Mom,” they both whine.
“Now. Take Bree out or no gaming tonight.”
Conner reluctantly lifts the baby out of the chair and carries her on his hip. She quiets, sucking on her pacifier as she watches Taylor push the stroller into the corridor.
“I want you guys out of the house for an hour.” Mindy hands Taylor a baby bottle. “I mean it, stay outside with Sherry. You’re starting to look like vampires.” She closes the door after them and leans against it as though worried they might try to get back in. “I need a smoke.” She hurries to the kitchen and turns the speakers down. “Put your ear against the wall. Can you hear Bhanmattie’s radio?”
Harriet presses her ear against the wall then shakes her head. Mindy turns the volume back up: Taylor Swift sings about how some guy did her wrong.
“Okay, I’m going for it.” Mindy grabs her cigarettes and heads for the balcony. “Be with you in a flash and we’ll make you gorgeous.” Harriet doesn’t want to be here anymore but doesn’t know where else to go. She eats several Goldfish, listening to Taylor Swift drone. Mindy’s playlist includes women moaning about searching for the right man, or losing him. Harriet can’t understand why she listens to this when she’s been stuck with the wrong man for years. Just like Lynne can’t lose Gennedy, Mindy can’t lose Boyd. She comes back in, rubbing her hands together again. “Okay, beauty, you ready? Time for some foundation. We’re talking peaches ’n’ cream for you, missy.” Mindy’s makeup sponge feels soft against Harriet’s skin. “You’ve got circles under your eyes, hon. Aren’t you sleeping?”
“Not last night.”
“You need sleep, otherwise the hormones go crazy. Take Gravol or Benadryl—it’ll knock you out. Okay, show me those peepers.” Harriet looks at her. “We’ll do soft accents, peachy and taupy.” Already Harriet feels painted and wants to rub it off.
“Seriously, hon, you’ve got great bones. And you’re model skinny. You should check out those modeling ads. They start them so young now. They’re, like, past it by the time they’re twenty. You’re in your bloom now, beauty.”
Harriet wants to change the subject. “Has Boyd been around?” She knows he has because she saw the cops pushing him into the cruiser.
“Yeah, he came by to see the kids, but then he wanted to get it on, like, right when I’m in the middle of cooking dinner and getting Bree ready for bed. He’s, like, all over me in front of the boys. I told him to fuck off, then the boys started going at him. It was nuts. Bhanmattie called the cops again. He just doesn’t get it. None of those old buzzards do because their gonads dried up a long time ago. Boyd loves me. He keeps coming back because he can’t get over me. That’s called love. If he quit using, we’d still be together. He’s a good man.”
Just like Gennedy. More excuses for no-goodniks.
“One of these days you’ll fall in love, hon, and you won’t know what hit you. Okay, what’s next? Mascara. Look up.” Mindy combs mascara onto Harriet’s lower lashes. “Okay, look down.” She combs it onto Harriet’s upper lashes. “Now a touch of blush, nothing too coral.” She picks a colour and brushes it onto Harriet’s cheeks.
They hear banging on the balcony. “It’s Bhanmattie,” Mindy whispers. “Pretend we’re not here.”
“I know you’re in there,” Mr. Bhanmattie shouts. “No smoking on the balcony. I have asthma.”
Mindy’s cell rings Taylor Swift singing “Love Story.” She looks at it and puts the phone down. “It’s Boyd. I don’t want to talk to him. I told him I’m changing the locks. Okay. Lips. Just a hint of pink.” She brushes lip gloss onto Harriet’s lips. “Gorgeous. Go look at yourself in the bathroom.” Her cell rings again. “Oh for fuck’s sake. If I don’t take it, he’ll just keep calling.”
Harriet almost doesn’t recognize herself in the bathroom mirror. This could
be her disguise, she realizes. She’s concerned that the Greyhound bus drivers might think she’s too young to travel alone. If she wears the leopard bra with pink lace and the pale blue tank top, plus Mindy’s pink scarf, they’ll think she’s older, although this would mean she’d have to pay adult fare. She removes the scarf and uses it to wrap up some of Mindy’s makeup samples piled in a basket by the sink. Mr. Bhanmattie continues to bang on the balcony doors. Harriet uses one of Mindy’s hair clips to twist her hair up the way Mindy does. She puts on Mindy’s cropped jean jacket and slides the door open.
“Who are you?” Mr. Bhanmattie asks.
“Who do you think I am?”
“Are you the one smoking?”
“I only do chemicals,” Harriet says, delighted that he doesn’t recognize her. “Mindy’s not smoking anymore. You can stop banging.” She slides the door closed. Mindy is no longer in the kitchen but in her bedroom, talking dirty to Boyd. Harriet drops her jean jacket on the couch.
“You look shit hot,” Darcy says, fondling lipsticks at the cosmetic counter. “What a sassmaster. How come she never offers me a makeover?”
“Maybe she doesn’t think you need it.”
“Preach it.”
Harriet’s gripping a packet of Jell-O Instant Chocolate Fudge pudding and some miniature marshmallows she intends to pay for with Mrs. Butts’ five bucks.
“If I had money,” Darcy says, “I’d totally get liposuction.” She sneaks a lipstick into her hoodie pocket. “Did you hear about the shooting?”
“What shooting?”
“Some pizza joint. The kid was wearing red. What kind of lame brain wears red in Crip territory? What a time to be alive.” She lines her eyes with black liner. “I could use a heater. Clayton says he can get me a strap for a hundred bucks.”
“A strap?”
“A gun, duh.” She smears purple eye shadow onto her eyelids.
“What do you want one for?”
On the Shores of Darkness, There is Light Page 15
