One Good Hustle

by Billie Livingston

  “I’ll come over. In around an hour?”

  “Fine,” she says, and the line goes dead.

  Standing in the hallway, I forget which door I was about to go through. I turn toward the basement. I should get dressed.

  “Sammie?” Ruby calls.

  I come back to the kitchen entrance. “My mom. I just have to go home for a bit. There’s a bunch of laundry.”

  Jill steps out of the bathroom and through a yawn says, “What’s going on?” Ruby exchanges a glance with Lou, who doesn’t look at me, just grabs another pancake and mops up the syrup on his plate.

  “Call her back and tell her you’re not coming,” Ruby says.

  “I just have to do—”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Marlene has to clean up her own mess.”

  I don’t like the way Ruby says Marlene, like it’s a swear word or something.

  Jill is right behind me. I can smell her Opium perfume. Her old boyfriend Roman bought her that. (I’d bet anything he got it hot.) Everything Jill owns is choking with that musky Opium smell. Enough to make you boke, as she would say.

  I move to the side and let her pass. She just stands there, though, tightens the belt of her fuzzy purple bathrobe and says, “Mom’s right.”

  My face is heating up. “Some of it’s mine too. The laundry …”

  “That’s fine,” Ruby says.

  “I can help her out if I want.”

  “You’d be doing her a bigger favour if you said no,” Ruby says.

  I bite a hangnail and look at Jill’s fuzzy bathrobe. I wish I could curl up in mountains of purple plush right now.

  “Call her back and tell her you’re not coming,” Ruby says again, trying to keep eye contact with me.

  I turn back into the hall and look at the phone. I pick up the receiver. There’s a spot of blood where the hangnail used to be and I suck at it, trying to remember my own number.

  After a few seconds I take my finger from my mouth and use it to dial.

  When Marlene answers, I stutter and stumble on every word. “Hi, um, yeah, I—I’m not coming over.”

  There’s a pause at her end. Then she says, “What do you mean, Mommy?” Marlene’s voice has turned high and small, as if she’s playing a part. A kid in a scary movie. “When are you coming home, Mommy? There’s no food. And you have to do laundry.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I whisper.

  “I’m scared, Mommy,” she says.

  The base of the phone is mounted on the wall. I tug the knotted phone cord and pull the receiver with me into the bathroom.

  “Why are you calling me Mommy?”

  “Because you’re my mommy!” she whispers back.

  “If I’m Mommy, then who are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Sammie!” Marlene says.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m playing games.” Marlene sounds really creepy now.

  I attempt to close the bathroom door but the cord is too short.

  “Oh yeah?” I try to keep my voice low and steady the way they say you should with mad dogs and crazy people. “I’m not playing with you. And I’m not coming over there.”

  Silence.

  “Okay?”

  “Fine,” she says, all clipped and pissy. The line goes dead again.

  I hang up.

  In the kitchen, all female eyes are watching me. Lou picks up his mug and stares into it as if he’s reading tea leaves.

  I sit at the table. Jill does too.

  Lou pushes his chair back and announces that he’s going out to the backyard to work on the broken part of the fence.

  When the back door closes behind him, Ruby says, “How are you doing, Sammie?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Good girl.” She looks out the window, and watches her husband cross the backyard. He kicks at the loose board on the fence, and she says, “I think I might go visit Adele today,” breezy as you please. Just like nothing happened.

  Ruby and Jill make small talk about this Adele chick and how ancient she is, five hundred years old and still kicking. Their voices are hyper-cheerful.

  I look down at the two pancakes on my plate and decide to throw some bacon on top. I reach for the bottle of pancake syrup, stare for a second at Aunt Jemima’s grinning face, that kerchief wrapped around her head as if she just escaped from Gone with the Wind.

  Corn syrup. That’s all it is. Fake. Plastic bottle with lousy corn syrup and food colouring. Ruby thinks she’s so much better than us and she can’t even buy real maple syrup.

  I flip the cap and squirt it all over my pancakes and bacon and then chew and chew, trying to get full.

  EIGHT

  AS I WALK down Kingsway, the traffic roars by and gives me a bit of relief, drowns me out. Kingsway is the main road that cuts through Burnaby. Kingsway feels like a strip mall that goes on forever.

  While I was eating those crappy corn-syrup pancakes, Jill asked me if I wanted to go with her to meet Crystal Norris at The Pantry. Pass. Although Crystal hasn’t shoulder-checked me lately. Since she discovered that Jill and I are friends she tolerates me pretty well.

  Don’t care, though. Don’t feel like talking. Don’t feel like being tolerated.

  Anonymity. That’s what I want.

  How can I stay in that house? Every day, they know more and more. Both of them yap-yap-yapping and listening to my conversations and telling me what to do.

  I don’t know if Marlene’s just being a brat or if she’s actually gone crazy. At the end of that call, she didn’t sound crazy. She sounded pissed off.

  What the fuck is she doing? I don’t get it. And where the hell is Sam? What if he called Jill’s house and they never told me? Maybe they forgot to write it down on the little pad on the wall. I wonder if I should just phone him again. Just to say hi. That’s what a normal daughter would do.

  I need to think. I need to feel air in my hair. I wish I could be in a convertible, by the ocean, downtown at English Bay. A person like me should live downtown.

  I keep walking west on Kingsway in the direction of downtown Vancouver. It’s only about seven or eight miles from here. Man, I’d like to move back to town. Marlene says I’m an urban snob. Fact is we were both die-hard urbanites before Sam buggered off, and even then, for the first couple of years at least, we managed to stay in the city. Until all that shit happened. One bad hustle pretty much turned Marlene off The Life for good. Mostly it was welfare after that. And moving farther and farther east every year, to cheaper and cheaper places, until we were smack in the middle of Burnaby. The Burbs.

  Burnaby used to have one thing going for it—I was closer to Drew. But now I can’t bear to look him in the eye. Not after everything he’s seen. He sure as hell didn’t need to know about Marlene and me. I should never have phoned him that night; I should have kept him pure and separate from our bullshit.

  But it was getting so I started to really panic when Marlene didn’t come home till late. Once upon a time, she used to leave me notes. Then that whole note thing went out the window. Meanwhile, if I’d ever disappeared and didn’t call or leave a note to say where I was, she would’ve peaked! It felt like the only thing worse than Marlene being home was waiting for Marlene to come home. Three nights before I left, I got so freaked out, I wrapped my arms around my knees and sat there on the couch, squeezing and rocking back and forth like some mental patient. What if she got hurt, who’d call me? I got so riled I actually found Fat Freddy’s number and phoned him.

  I had to go into Marlene’s file box for his number. Marlene has a small plastic file box with alphabetized index cards that detail every bar she ever hit with the Birthday Girl and a few other scams. She used to be very systematic. She wrote down the town, the bar, the bartender, the jewellery involved and who she was with at the time. This stuff dates back to when Sam was around. Freddy’s card has his phone number and any leads that are specific to Freddy. The details are coded. I don’t think a cop would ever k
now what he was reading.

  “Heya, kid,” said Freddy when he picked up. “Na, I haven’t seen your mother lately. I figured she was either workin’ solo or lambin’ it. Ha ha …” That’s Fat Freddy for you, like some prehistoric creature from the late, late show. My dad kind of talks like that too. Sam calls crooked guys “rounders” and regular guys “square johns.” I was pretty old before I realized most people don’t talk that way.

  “You all alone over there, Sammie?”

  “My boyfriend’s here,” I lied.

  “Uh-oh! I won’t tell if you don’t!”

  Talking to Freddy only made me more paranoid.

  I hung up. But I couldn’t shake that black-cloud kind of feeling. I got out the White Pages and flipped chunks of grey leaves. It was almost nine o’clock now.

  I started by phoning hospitals to see if she’d ended up in the emergency ward: Burnaby General, Vancouver General, St. Paul’s. It wasn’t as if Marlene had never had a wreck in the past. She’d totalled that old Nova of hers last year.

  When the hospitals didn’t have her, I wondered if she’d be stupid enough to get drunk and try to work. Marlene’s not the kind of girl to learn from her mistakes. And what if she got busted? Who’d call me?

  I phoned the main police station downtown. When they answered, I hung up. People like us don’t call cops.

  Then I panicked some more.

  There are perfectly legit reasons to call the cops, I told myself. Normal people call the cops all the time.

  I phoned back. I asked if anyone had come across a woman called Marlene Bell.

  The cop laughed. “No. Should we be expecting her?”

  “She’s—She should be home and I thought … an accident, maybe.”

  Silence on his end, and then, “Okay, why don’t I call you back if I hear anything? Who knows, eh?”

  I couldn’t hang up now. That’d be suspicious. What if he traced the call?

  Normal people phone the police.

  I told him my number.

  An hour later he called back. They had Marlene.

  I asked if she was okay. “Will she lose her driver’s licence?”

  “She wasn’t driving. We found her wandering around Broadway and Main. If you want to come get her—actually, we’ll hang on to her for a couple more hours, let her sober up. Come after midnight. You driving?”

  “I don’t have my licence yet,” I mumbled. “I just turned sixteen.”

  His silence was the worst part. “Do you have someone you can call?” he finally asked. “And bring her some clothes.”

  “Clothes?”

  “She was wearing a sleeping bag and one clog when we picked her up. Come by anytime after midnight.” He rattled off the address.

  Who do you call when your mother’s in jail? How totally screwed is that?

  Who did I have? My dad? No. Fat Freddy? Forget it. Who? Drew. I had Drew. Drew was the only one in the world who really gave a shit.

  I called his house and his mother answered. “It’s ten-thirty at night, Samantha.” Her voice was suspicious and tinny.

  Drew’s mother had my number all right. Drew told me once that she’d said I was a bad apple.

  She called her son and told him to be quick about it.

  I kept swallowing and looking at the clock. After midnight, the cop had said. How could Drew help me after midnight? And if he did help me then he’d know. He’d know who I was and what kind of people I come from. For real.

  Drew pulled up in his dad’s car at five to one. He had told me he’d be there at quarter past twelve. “What took you so long?”

  “You think he just handed me the keys? My dad’ll shit a brick if he catches me.”

  “Sorry.”

  He glanced down at my hands. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Nothing.” I scrunched the plastic in my lap. “Clothes. Can we go?”

  Drew carefully put the car into drive. Streetlights illuminated the hard, red bumps on his skin, turning them purple in the night. He was so embarrassed about his zits. In this light they made him look wounded. I wished we could be quiet and hug for a long time. But we didn’t do that sort of thing. Drew and I aren’t touchy types. So, instead, we eased forward, Drew’s hands firmly at ten and two o’clock on the wheel.

  As we got closer to the station, the streets got grimier and lonelier—as if the whole neighbourhood was a place that served you right for being a screw-up. It was past one-thirty when we parked in front of the station, a big, ugly brick building with small, caged windows lit yellow. Drew turned off the ignition.

  “I can’t do this,” I blurted.

  He looked at me. “You want me to go? I’ll go.”

  I nodded and handed him the bag of clothes. He handed me the car key. “In case you want to listen to the radio or something.” He got out.

  He blinked up at the police station a moment. I watched his skinny legs as he climbed the concrete steps.

  Once he disappeared through the doors, I stared at the dashboard and listened to the engine click as it cooled.

  “I’ll kill you!” someone yelled. I twisted around to see two guys staggering down the block. One guy threw a fist into the other’s chest and sent him sprawling. These two assholes were loose and Marlene was behind bars. In the movies, they always make it look all adorable when some chick is drunk off her butt. But in real life, people hate her—they want to make her disappear.

  I clicked the lock down on my door.

  Eventually Drew and my mom pushed through the front doors, Drew with a red-plaid sleeping bag under one arm and his opposite hand under my mother’s elbow. Marlene pulled free, leaned on the banister and slid the rest of the way down the stairs. She stumbled off the last step and Drew caught her elbow again.

  Giggling, she said, “You are my prince,” and grabbed Drew’s face.

  “Shut up,” I said to the dashboard.

  “God, you’re cute!” she yelled at him.

  Drew kept a hand across her back and brought her over to the passenger side. I shoved my door open. Marlene’s face lit up when I got out.

  Then, reading my eyes, she said, “Oops. I’m in trouble. My little girl thinks I’m a loo-hoo-hooser.” She made an L out of her thumb and finger and planted it on her forehead.

  I handed Drew the keys and got into the back. I wanted her up front, not sitting behind me, playing with my hair or trying to maul me. I watched Marlene watching Drew as he closed the passenger door and I wished we had put her in the trunk.

  As he walked around to the driver’s side, Marlene turned around in her seat and looked at me. “He’s a doll,” she said. “You should marry him.” She blinked and then reached for my face. “Look how pretty you are … my angel. You’re my sweet angel.” She went suddenly serious. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead, you know.”

  My mother’s fingers kept reaching, and so I leaned forward, took hold of them and pressed them to my cheek. Her eyes welled up until tears dribbled down.

  You’d think, after everything, that Marlene would have given up hustling and drinking. That she’d have gotten religion—maybe joined a choir! Instead, it was me nosing around the church pews hunting for peace and someplace quiet.

  It was going on three in the morning by the time we got back. Marlene giggled as Drew and I steadied her down the hall of our building. Coming through the apartment door she started to groan about being tired.

  “I got to catch a few Zs,” she said. “A few Zs!” she repeated, and laughed her head off.

  I flicked the light on in our hall. Drew had never been in our apartment and now the dirt on the walls stood out in relief, the stains on the carpet, the stale smell of the place. He seemed to avert his eyes, trying not to look around.

  Marlene suddenly grabbed Drew’s chin and kissed his cheek with a loud smack. “Jesus Christ, you’re cute,” she said.

  “You too,” he told her. “I think we should put you to bed.”

  “Are you coming?” she asked.<
br />
  “No,” he said with a jittery laugh. “I have to go home.”

  “You can take off now,” I said. “We’re good.” Drew stared at me and I looked away. “I mean it’s late. You don’t have to stick around.”

  Drew let Marlene’s arm go as I pulled her toward her bedroom.

  “Why is everybody leaving?” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  Her room smelled of stale booze. I didn’t bother to turn the lights on as I shouldered her to the bed. I pulled the rumpled covers back and what sounded like a glass hit the rug, along with a few other bits of junk. I gave her a light shove and she squealed as she hit the mattress.

  “Show me the way to go home,” she sang, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed.” She interrupted herself with, “I’m hungry.”

  “Tough.” I took off her shoes, hauled her legs onto the bed and yanked the covers over her.

  After closing her door behind me, I went back into the hall to where Drew stood waiting.

  “Do you want me to—?”

  “Okay, well, thanks,” I said, cutting him off as I headed for the front door.

  “Are you going to be all right?” He glanced back at my mother’s room and followed me.

  “Yup. I’ll talk to you later.” Opening the door, I kept my eyes on the rug.

  He paused, stuttering a little before he said, “Do you have, like, a social worker type thing? Because of the welfare?”

  “No,” I snapped. I forgot I’d told him about us being on welfare. But how else could I explain how we paid the rent? “I mean, some chick comes nosing around once a year to make sure we’re not rich. But I’m not calling her.”

  “Maybe you should,” he said. “I’m scared if you don’t—” His eyes flicked away. “I’ll talk to my mom. She—” Drew stuttered till his words went straight again. “Maybe you could sleep in my brother’s old bed.”

  “That’s very um—No, I’m—” I could feel my face getting hot. Drew came from people who were clean and good and right. I held the door open farther and kept my eyes away from his. “I’m okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He stepped into the hallway, turned and looked at me. I should have said something more, but I just closed the door. Flicking off the light I leaned against the wall until I heard him moving down the hallway.