Trader

by Charles de Lint

  A soft ding coming from her oven told her that dinner was ready. With a last lingering look at the snow-covered street outside, she turned from the window and went into the kitchen to take it out. A TV dinner, turkey, mashed potatoes and all the trimmings—two days early, but she was in the mood and couldn’t wait. If she wanted it again on Sunday, she could always pick up another of these culinary wonders tomorrow, before the stores closed.

  Pouring herself a glass of white wine, she took her dinner into the living room and sat down on the couch. She lifted her glass in a toast to the poster in the corner, guitar case still standing under it.

  It had been six months now. Hard to imagine a Christmas without Zeffy. Hard to imagine that the door wouldn’t burst open any moment and in she’d come, her arms laden with Christmas goodies and decorations. The only decoration Tanya had put up was a small plastic Christmas tree on top of the TV. Zeffy would have had the place positively glittering with Christmas cheer. Streamers, mistletoe, a real tree, lights, stockings by the heating grate, the whole works.

  Tanya smiled, remembering the year that Zeffy had constructed a fake fireplace out of cardboard and set it up in front of the heating grate so that they could hang their stockings from it, the hot air coming out of the large hole she’d left for that purpose. Tanya had been afraid of it being a fire hazard, so Zeffy compromised, only setting it up Christmas Eve and turning the heat way down for the night. They’d woken to a frosty apartment and then huddled in front of the grate as though it were a real hearth, sitting close to it for warmth as they sipped coffee and opened the presents they’d gotten for each other.

  There was a wrapped present under the tree on the TV—a small silver broach in the shape of a guitar—but Tanya didn’t think it would be opened this year. Only she and Jilly ever expected to see Zeffy again. She, because she was too stubborn to give up hope; Jilly, because that was just the way Jilly was, full of optimism.

  Cleaning up after the meal was easy. She had only a fork, knife and wineglass to wash; the TV dinner packaging went straight into the garbage container by the oven, calling up a twinge of environmental guilt before she closed the lid on it. Making herself a cup of tea, she returned to the living room and found herself reaching for a cigarette before she realized what she was doing.

  She hadn’t had a cigarette in two months, but tonight she felt like smoking a whole pack. It wasn’t so much that she was depressed as suffering from a seasonal malaise. There was so much relentless good cheer in the air that it was hard not to be reminded how so little of it was hers. Most of the time she did pretty well—missing Zeffy, but dealing with it. Getting on with her life. But with the snow making a Christmas card of her dingy street outside and carols still ringing in her ears—even after having finally turned the radio off after dinner—it was hard not to dwell on the mystery of Zeffy’s disappearance and how much she missed her.

  After a while, when she realized she was in danger of slipping into a serious bout of melancholy, she put on her coat and went walking through the snow. The fresh air cleared her mind and the snow was turning everything into such a fairyland that her spirits soon lifted. She had no particular destination in mind, but when she found herself on Yoors Street, a block or two away from Jilly’s studio loft, she decided to drop in for a visit.

  Jilly answered the door with a ready smile, a tangle of red and green ribbons looped around her neck like dangling ivy. Stuck to the back of her hand and all along her forearm were a half-dozen or so small pieces of cellophane tape. A Christmas carol was playing cheerfully from a tape deck behind her, but it didn’t bother Tanya here. Cheerful things simply made sense in any proximity to Jilly.

  “Hey, stranger,” Jilly said. “It’s good to see you. C’mon in.”

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  Jilly shook her head. “I’m just wrapping some presents to take by St. Vincent’s. You can help if you like.”

  “Who do you know at St. Vincent’s?”

  “Everybody.”

  “No, really.”

  St. Vincent’s Home for the Aged was a seniors’ residence located in an old, greystone building downtown that catered to those who didn’t have families, or whose families couldn’t afford to put them in a regular retirement home. They were privately funded and run by volunteers. Only the medical staff received a salary.

  “No, really,” Jilly repeated, smiling. “I go there all the time and hang out with the old folks. They get so few visitors, you know?”

  “And you’re still volunteering at the Grasso Street soup kitchen?” Tanya asked.

  Jilly nodded. “But that’s only once every couple of weeks. We’ve already had our Christmas party, though there’s going to be a special dinner on Sunday.”

  “I don’t know where you find the time.”

  “Me, either,” Jilly told her. “But we can’t just forget about them. It could just as easily be you or me there, you know.”

  “You’re right. I should be doing something like that.”

  “Whatever feels right.”

  Jilly led the way back through her cluttered loft to a section of floor she’d cleared to wrap the presents.

  “There’s eggnog in the fridge,” she said. “And rum on the counter, if you want to spike it.”

  “What are you having?”

  “Spiked, of course.”

  Tanya wandered over to the part of the loft that served as the kitchen, pausing on the way to admire a work-in-progress on Jilly’s easel. At the moment it was simply a rough sketch of an old building, rendered in oil, burnt umber on a pale yellow ochre ground, the drawing done with a brush, but knowing Jilly’s work, Tanya could easily imagine how it would turn out.

  “That new piece is nice,” she said as she helped herself to some of the eggnog and rum.

  “Got a show coming up in January,” Jilly said, “and three more pieces to finish for it. That’s going to be the old train station.”

  “I thought I recognized it.”

  Tanya brought her drink back to where Jilly was and sat down to help her wrap. The presents reflected Jilly’s whimsical nature: old toys, small porcelain vases, books, a few of her own paintings—small four-by-six pieces in used frames.

  “Who’s this for?” Tanya asked, holding up a plastic Cookie Monster figurine.

  “Janet Avens. She’s always telling me about how she used to watch Sesame Street with her grandchildren. I think it was the best time in her life.”

  “How come she’s in St. Vincent’s?”

  Jilly shrugged. “No one to take care of her, I guess. She never talks about how she got there and it’s not something I ever ask.”

  Of course not, Tanya thought, as she found a little box to stick the Cookie Monster figurine in and carefully wrapped it. She knew from experience that you didn't need anybody to remind you of the depressing things in your life—you could do that all too easily for yourself.

  “So I hear you’re back in the movie business,” Jilly said.

  Tanya laughed. “Who told you?”

  “Mary Drake—she works in the copy shop under your office.”

  Tanya knew her. She’d met her because Eddie kept sending her down to get this copied, and that copied. They had lunch together sometimes at a coffee bar down the street, where Mary would fill her in on all the building’s gossip.

  “Is there anybody you don’t know?” she asked.

  Jilly assumed an exaggerated thinker’s pose, elbow on her knee, chin cupped in her hand. “Let’s see. I think a new family’s moved in that apartment complex by the zoo...”

  They both laughed.

  “So tell me all about it,” Jilly said when they caught their breath.

  “It’s no big deal really,” Tanya began, then caught herself. “No, I’m lying. It is a big deal. Just a bit part—maybe three days’ work, tops—but it’s a Ron Howard film, set right here in the city, and if any of my scenes actually make the final cut, it could open a few doors. Eddie's ec
static, naturally.”

  “And how’s Tanya?”

  Tanya smiled. “She feels good about it, too.”

  She could still remember how weird it had been that first morning three months ago when she’d walked into Eddie Flanagan’s two-room office. The outer room had the secretary’s desk, file cabinets, phone on the desk, computer on a small workstation to one side, a small waiting area with a couple of chairs. The walls were plastered with glossy eight-by-tens, all signed to Eddie, nobody Tanya knew except for a buxom model she’d seen on a recent series of stereo ads that seemed to be plastered all over the city.

  Eddie came out of the inner office to greet her when she arrived, a short, dapper man in suit pants, white shirt, tie. He looked to be in his early forties, brown hair cut short and brushed back from a broad face, pronounced laugh lines around his dark eyes and mouth. He stopped abruptly in the doorway of his office and studied her for a long moment.

  “I know you,” he said.

  “I’m from the temp agency,” Tanya said.

  “No, I mean I know you. What’s your name?”

  She told him.

  “Tanya Burns, Tanya Burns,” he repeated, then his face lit up. “Sisters of the Knife, Phil Castledore directing. Crap movie, but you were good in it—better than Castledore deserved.”

  Tanya’s heart sank. Of all the people to work for, she had to run into some old fan. And she was stuck here for two weeks. The only good thing was that he wasn’t liable to turn into Johnny on her. She hoped.

  “What happened to you?” Eddie asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sisters of the Knife did decent box office, considering. Still moves in rental. But you, you’re in, you’re good, then nada.”

  “I decided to be a waitress, instead.”

  Eddie laughed. “Hey, that’s good. That’s funny. But seriously. What’ve you been doing since? Theatre? Foreign stuff?”

  “Just waitressing. Now I’m doing office work.”

  Though she might walk right out of here, if he got too weird. Trouble was, she really needed the money.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re wasting your talent.”

  “What talent? Shower scenes? Getting cut up in slasher films?”

  “No,” he said, looking serious—genuinely serious, not phony show-biz solemnity. “I mean, acting talent. Everybody’s got to go through some bullshit movies—crap like Sisters. But then you move on. Use your talent—why do you think you were given it? To piss it away?”

  After that, he began a campaign to get her back into the business; nothing overtly pushy, he simply wouldn’t let it go. Just before her two weeks were up, serendipitous fate intervened: his regular secretary phoned from Hawaii to quit and he offered Tanya a regular job. She accepted, mostly because she liked working for Eddie. He was funny, but he took his work seriously. Understood the difference between box office and art, but didn’t feel you necessarily had to give up one for the other. He was a well-reasoned idealist, a pragmatic dreamer.

  And he never gave up.

  Finally she agreed to sign with him. A couple of modeling jobs. A walk-on in a low-budget art film that was shooting on location just outside of Newford.

  “But if I don’t like it,” she said, “that’s it. I keep my job, but you don’t bug me anymore.”

  “Never do what you don’t like,” he told her. “But always weigh your options. Maybe you don’t like six weeks on the set, or a forty-eight-hour glamour shoot. But how much do you like tapping on a keyboard and answering phones nine-to-five, five days a week? Everybody’s got to make a buck—the trick is, either find something you like to do, or do something to pay the rent that doesn’t take too much out of you. Capisce?”

  “What about art?”

  “I’ll tell you about art. Do the best job you possibly can. Have something to say. And stop equating it only with what you find in libraries, galleries and foreign film festivals. The eye of the beholder, you see what I’m getting at?” She still didn’t like the modeling, and said no after three shoots. True to his word, Eddie didn’t press her on it anymore. “It was just to get the face out there,” he explained, “and put a little folding money in your pocket. You no like? No problemo.” But the walk-on film role ended up as a two-day job and she even got a couple of lines that looked like they wouldn’t end up on the cutting-room floor. More to the point, she’d loved it. On the set, something woke up inside her that had never been there her first time around, and she found herself yearning for a meatier role.

  Eddie was good. Didn’t say I told you so. But he smiled. A lot. And busted his ass to get her the small role in the Howard film. Went with her to the first cattle call and two subsequent callbacks. Yesterday afternoon, Thursday, he’d come out of his office, then leaned casually against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, Mr. Casual. Tanya’d looked up, trying to figure out what was on his mind at first, but then knew.

  “You heard back from them,” she said.

  Eddie nodded. “And I’ve got just two words for you: Hello Hollywood.”

  The weird thing,” Tanya told Jilly as they continued to wrap presents, “is that I never thought I’d find this...enthusiasm inside me. For anything, never mind acting.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Jilly said.

  “Thanks. I just wish I could share the news with Zeffy. It never mattered how screwed up I’d get, she was always there for me. I guess I’d just like her to see me happy about something that doesn’t revolve around a boyfriend.”

  “Nothing wrong with boyfriends,” Jilly said.

  “Unless you base your life around them.” Tanya shook her head. “No, thanks. This time I’m doing it on my own. I mean, look at you—or Zeffy. You don’t need guys to be happy.”

  Jilly seemed about to say something, but then bent back to the book she was wrapping.

  “Okay,” Tanya said. “What were you thinking?”

  Jilly shook her head. “Nothing. It’s not really any of my business.”

  “But,” Tanya prompted her.

  “But nothing. Really.”

  “It’s about Geordie, isn’t it?” Tanya said.

  She still thought about him, felt bad for the way she’d treated him, but knew she couldn’t give in, couldn’t simply become somebody else’s appendage, no matter how nice they seemed.

  “Let me put it this way,” Jilly said. “Maybe if Zeffy or I had someone as nice as Geordie feeling about us the way he does about you, we’d have boyfriends, too.”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t want to hear that.”

  “I know. And I wasn’t going to say anything.” Jilly finished tying off a bow, then sat back. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you,” she added, “not what other people think is right. And if you don’t care for him the way he does for you...well, it’s nobody’s fault, right? It’s just the way it goes.”

  “But that’s the whole problem,” Tanya told her. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them fiercely away. “I’m crazy about him. But I just don’t want my life to get swallowed up by somebody else again.”

  Jilly was silent for a long moment.

  “Did you ever tell a guy that?” she asked finally.

  Tanya shook her head. “I didn’t think they’d take it all that well.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “But not with how Geordie would take it—is that what you’re saying?”

  “I have no idea what Geordie’d say,” Jilly told her. “That’s something you’d have to ask him yourself.”

  13 LISA

  The last thing Lisa wanted to do was attend the office Christmas party, but there was no way out of it. It had nothing to do with disappointing her coworkers. She hadn’t exactly been the most popular person in the office over these last few horrible months: off sick too much, barely able to find a smile when she did come in, other people always having to pick up her slack. How she’d managed to still hang on to the job, s
he had no idea, but if she wanted to keep working with these people, she knew she’d better try to reinforce some positive connections with them soon.

  The depression she carried around with her couldn’t be easy to take. Lord knows, she couldn’t stand herself the way she was—so why should anybody else? But she had to work with these people, and if standing around smiling and making small talk with her coworkers and their spouses helped ease some of the inevitable tension her moods created in the office, then it would be worth it.

  So she trudged through the deepening snow, head bent against the wind, the present everybody was supposed to bring cradled against her chest. The ploughs weren’t out yet—at least not in this part of town—and the sidewalks were always last to be dealt with, especially in her neighborhood, where vehicles couldn’t fit anyway so the narrow streets were quickly blocked with drifts. Four blocks from Old Market and her calves were already aching; she was cold because her coat, while fashionable, wasn’t exactly warm; and she’d already taken a couple of falls. But she was determined to get there and be cheerful tonight, even if it took getting tipsy to do so, and she wasn’t going to let the bad weather undermine her resolve.

  She gritted her teeth. Except, she thought, she’d like to have whoever’d had the nerve to design and sell a coat such as this as winter clothing in front of her at the moment so that she could give them a good slap in the head.

  But it was her own fault, really, wasn’t it, for going out and buying it, rather than something more sensible. Her fault for buying into the fashion industry’s false promises that if she looked like this, if she bought that, she’d have a perfect life. Her fault. Just as everything that had gone wrong with her life was her fault. Maybe her mother was right. She was a screwup, and that’s why her life was such a mess. And since that must be true, then why even bother to—

  Neither she nor the woman she bumped into were watching where they were going. Heads bent, they banged into each other with enough impact for Lisa to lose her balance yet again. Her feet went out from under her and she fell backward, the snow breaking her fall.