Nothing Looks Familiar

by Shawn Syms

  “Rory, you’ve probably seen it in the little boys’ room. How does Devon measure up?”

  “Standing at the urinals, the last thing I do is stare at other guys’ packages. That’s a great way to lose a tooth or two.” The tubby, effete one’s voice affected mock indignation. He paused before adding, “It’s a nice size—but I’ve seen bigger!”

  Gildette laughed the loudest. How could she be entertained by these low-class, distasteful musings? Surely her culture must disapprove of male homosexuality. Nigeria, could it be?

  Five orderlies emerged from the kitchen at once, fanning out into the room of hungry invalids like geese in formation. Rory aimed straight for me. In the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria, I noticed that his brown and grey roots were starting to show in the midst of his unnatural yellow coiffure.

  “How are you doing today, Cassie?” His voice reminded me of a young girl addressing a kindergarten teacher and trying to gain her favour, polished apple in hand.

  “Don’t call me Cassie. My name is Cassandra.”

  He placed a hand on his hip and arched his eyebrows. “Well, forgive me, Ca-son-dra. Would you be so kind as to tell me where I could find your sister, Ruthie? And pray tell, why isn’t she with you?”

  Such priggery. I wished I could make this turd simply vanish. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them. He was still there, a weighty tray quivering in his hand.

  “She fell asleep from exhaustion. The Sun crossword proved too much for her.”

  “Hmm. Then I’ll have to bring this to her in your room and feed her there.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off in a rather ladylike fashion.

  I didn’t bother to stifle my belch. Wonderful. I can’t even return to my own room—such as it is—without more nuisance from the haughty invert. Rupert befriended a few homosexuals when he taught at the university, but the older I get, the less I can tolerate their ways. Ruthann, for all her supposed piety, doesn’t mind them. Of course, there is no internal logic to her scattered belief system. She thinks it’s a good thing that a youth choir is going to sing for a bunch of heroin addicts!

  I took my cane from the empty chair beside me and stood up. It felt heavy. It hurt to stand, and not from my bunions. No, sometimes the weight you feel when trying to raise yourself is purely emotional. Trying to guard my feeble sister, while maintaining my own dignity—it can be too much to bear.

  Walking slowly down the hall, I came into the rotunda and made my way toward the window. The sun was beginning to set, giving the sky a rosy, sombre hue. From the window I could see the rose garden below, and still make out the peach- and lemon-coloured blossoms. The bushes needed pruning, though I doubted that would happen.

  The last time I’d looked at the roses was the first week I was here. Rupert had been dead for three months, and Ruthann’s daughter in Ottawa began to pressure me to come and stay with her mother. What else did I have going on back in Calgary, my niece pointed out. It was true; I’d not been much of a faculty wife and had never gotten along well with the others. Rupert and I didn’t socialize much anyway; we had each other, and that was all we needed. After a couple of courtesy calls in the first few weeks, I was truly alone.

  Because Ruthann was sensitive to pollen, I had gone out to the garden on my own. Despite the void I felt, I had to admit the roses were delicate and beautiful. Away from the grove of colourful bushes, along a lattice fence, the Eden Climber grew, with its full and heavy complement of dense petals, white on the outer edges and the colour of pink grapefruit on the inside.

  I sat in the shade on a concrete patio off to the side, with no one else nearby. I looked down at the white slabs and noticed some large black ants. Three or four wandered their own paths, with no apparent rhyme or reason.

  One approached me. It moved more quickly than the other ants, carrying something. Staring with curiosity, I noticed that it had the body of another ant, lengthwise, in its mouth. It ran frantically to my left, then turned and dashed off to my right. After a while of going nowhere fast, it placed the body of the other ant on the ground, touched it two times with its head, and ran off. It scurried away from the rose bushes and grass, farther onto the concrete toward the red brick wall of Brentwood Pines. I continued to stare until the departing ant was gone from view altogether.

  The clock on my bedside table read ten-thirty. Our captors don’t usually let us sleep this late—they must have forgotten about me. Ruthann’s bed was empty. I remembered the wheelchair race.

  I dragged myself toward our bathroom, rubbing my eyes, trying to emerge from the foggy haze of sleep. As I sat on the toilet, I recalled a conversation with Ruthann earlier in the week. She was looking forward to her daughter Joelle’s visit later this month, and she mentioned Emily Bertolini, who lived on the first floor. At ninety-one, she still had visitors weekly, including cousins who travelled here from Italy.

  My sister somehow knew and was able to recall a lot of personal information about many people at Brentwood Pines. Ruthann had shrugged when I mentioned this. “God is in the details,” she replied, as some kind of mystical rejoinder. I doubt she even knew who originally said that. She’d probably heard it regurgitated at that multi-denominational, Janet Jackson–condoning chapel of quackery up the hall. I realized I didn’t know anyone else’s name in this place—except for Ruthann and the orderlies we saw every day.

  As I sat back on my bed with my terry bathrobe on, Gildette entered the room with a tray, which she brought to my bedside.

  In a mock-indignant tone, she called out loudly. “Cassandra, I’ve had to bring your breakfast in here three days in a row. You need to have breakfast with the others, every day!”

  Her voice hurt my ears. I looked down as she lifted the lid on the tray to reveal a steaming omelette accompanied by pear slices out of a can. I poked at the omelette with a fork. It appeared to have last night’s spinach folded inside.

  “Thank you, Gildette.” I was more polite to her than the other orderlies. She was a large woman, and I was determined not to make her angry—I had a suspicion she might hit me. I also exercised good manners around her because I didn’t want her to think that I was a racist.

  I took a bite or two of the bland sponge, and she appeared to approve. I decided to go ahead and ask. “Gildette, are you from Nigeria, by any chance? Or maybe Cameroon?”

  For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, to my surprise, she gave me a look of annoyance. “I grew up in Brazil.”

  I thought of telling her about my two trips to Africa, but decided against it. “Gildette, do you know where my sister Ruthann is?”

  “Ruthie is out in the hallway with Devon. She’s practicing for this morning’s race.” She laughed. “I tripped over her practice pylon.”

  “That sounds dangerous.” I sampled the canned pears. Lukewarm, devoid of flavour. I used a sip of water to get them down. “Do you think she has a chance?”

  “I’m not sure,” Gildette said, drawing the curtains and opening the window a crack. “Only a few women are competing.”

  I wasn’t surprised, but still a bit concerned. I could imagine some of the younger men—those in their fifties—having an unfair advantage against my vulnerable older sister. Maybe some who don’t even normally use a wheelchair would enter the race. I pictured some kind of disorderly Geritol-class version of bumper cars—chaos on the gymnasium floor.

  “Is there a prize?”

  “Yes. The winner gets the meal of their choice every dinner for the rest of the week. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  I couldn’t pretend, even with Gildette. “I suppose it would be if the food here were edible,” I replied, pushing my tray forward slightly.

  “Hey!” Gildette raised her voice. “My sister works in the kitchen.”

  I looked down.

  “Cassandra, do you want me to take you to the auditorium when it’s time for the races?”

  “No, thank you, Gildette. I will manage.” Cane or no cane, I was determin
ed to take the stairs myself. Elevators are for lazy people.

  Gildette took my tray and walked out the door. I heard my sister’s voice in the hallway. She sounded giddy. “I turned the corner on my own!” she said with clear joy.

  “You did a great job.” Devon’s voice was tender and strangely emotional. “Downstairs, you’ll have a bit less room if the guys on either side reach the pylons at the same time—so you may still need a bit of help.”

  “No one will keep up with me!” Ruthann giggled like a little girl. They sounded like a parent and child—an observation that filled me with unease.

  Their voices grew louder, then started to recede. Ruthann and Devon walked past the door to our room and continued toward the elevator. I decided to wait before heading downstairs, so as not to run into them in the hall. Who knows, I thought, maybe she will be victorious. Perhaps I could talk her into sharing her special dinners with me.

  It may have been the slowest race in history, but believe it or not, my sister won. Although she was the only woman to compete, most of the contestants were her own age, some even in their eighties. My fears aside, there had been no ringers. I was just happy she didn’t hurt herself.

  I’d sat in an isolated corner and intended to make my way over to Ruthann to offer congratulations, but before I knew it, she was spirited away—presumably off to the dining hall with the staff and her two runners-up. They were entitled to the first pieces of cake. At their age, these old people should not be eating chocolate cake. I decided I would retire to my room for a rare moment of quiet.

  The gymnasium floor was rubberized and my cane sank into it, if only by a quarter-inch or so, but it was an unexpected and uncomfortable sensation. I slowed right down to avoid losing my balance. The path toward the exit got crowded. I was fighting the current: everyone was headed for the cake, and I just wanted to get out of there.

  I turned away, startled by a yell and a loud moan from the middle of the dispersing crowd. Good grief—it was my raunchy neighbour Ethel Grennier. She’d shit her pants again. Several of the women next to her lurched away, while the one closest to her just patted her on the back softly while waiting for the orderlies to come over. I imagine the Good Samaritan was breathing through her mouth.

  A discarded wheelchair rolled into my path in the ruckus. As I took a step, my foot caught inside the spokes of a back wheel, and I fell to the ground. Pain shot up my leg, from my twisted ankle to my knee. While I felt tears streaming down my face, and I hurt too much to be embarrassed, I tried not to make a sound. I froze on the floor, wishing I could disappear, holding my eyes tightly shut.

  A pair of strong hands lifted me up slowly and carefully, setting me into the very wheelchair that had been to blame for my fall. I opened my eyes. It was Rory. He left me for a minute, then came back with a glass of water and some painkillers, which I swallowed quickly, eager to restore my sense of control. “Let’s go up to your room,” Rory said quietly, heading toward the elevators.

  “Thank you, Rory,” I replied, humbled.

  We rode the elevator in silence, then Rory wheeled me down the hall. When we entered the room, I realized immediately we were not alone. The privacy curtain—normally never used—had been pulled around Ruthann’s bed. I heard her make a strange hissing sound.

  Placing my hands onto the back wheels of the chair, I pulled into the room on my own, a pain wrenching my right leg. I wheeled up to Ruthann’s bed and pulled on the curtain.

  Ruthann lay on the bed, clothed, while Devon stood above her. He was stroking her cheek with one hand, the other out of sight in front of him. She had one hand on her breast and the other at her side.

  Devon’s body jerked toward me, slowly chased by his lazy blue eye. He’d been groping himself in his tight scrubs. He moved the hand away. I pushed forward in the chair till I hit his foot, then reached forward and punched him in the lumpy crotch. Devon yelped, grasped himself between his legs with both hands, and ran out of the room. Ruthann began to scream.

  I turned from her to face Rory. “I want to report this to the authorities,” I said, rolling back to my own side of the room. Ruthann’s yelps turned to loud, sputtering cries.

  Rory looked stunned. “I’ll speak to the floor manager right now,” he replied, and turned to leave the room, closing the door behind him.

  I sat and watched in silence as Ruthann’s cries quietened and eventually ceased. She turned her face toward me, red-eyed. She spoke through clenched teeth.

  “I asked him to touch my face. That’s all that happened.”

  I stared at her, filled with pity.

  “Touch is sacred.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Ruthann … ” I began.

  “Call me Ruthie!” she yelled back. “That’s what I like to be called.”

  Looking away, I wheeled out of the room, heading for the elevator, for the rose garden.

  Is this sort of behaviour to be my fate as well, when I’m as old as Ruthann? So desperate for touch that I would allow myself to be stroked by a filthy opportunist, a pervert? I certainly hoped not. For I could not imagine anything quite as tragic and awful as that.

  The Exchange

  Mike Martell’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at little Roddy Kostenko. Mike had a good six inches on Roddy. He was taller and chubbier than the small-framed boy. He leaned over Roddy and scowled. His hair was greasy, and he wore a dirty brown vest. “If you don’t bring me Bettina’s panties by tomorrow, you’re dead meat, Stinko!”

  Mike was never without his lanky cohort Eddie Wallace. The second boy’s eyes were bits of coal. “Yeah, Stinko,” he added, his reedy voice a lurid taunt. “No sniffing them, either.”

  Mike lunged forward, and with both hands, shoved Roddy, knocking him off his feet. Just as he splashed into the muddy puddle, Roddy woke to the sound of his mother’s entreating voice.

  Roddy turned to see her head poking in through his bedroom door. “Get up and have a shower, Roderick. You don’t want to be late for school, do you?”

  Roddy shook himself from slumber, consciousness seeping in like a wet blanket tossed over him. “Yes, Mom … No, Mom.” The opposite was true. No, he didn’t want to have a shower, and yes, he did want to be late for school. Maybe starting at a new school was easy for someone else, some ideal boy who made friends with everyone he met. But it never got any easier for Roddy. So far, entering a new school in a new city more than half way through the school year had felt like a record low. He pulled himself to his feet and faked making his bed, only bothering to straighten the top sheet, hoping his mom wouldn’t notice the misshapen lumps underneath. She would, like always—but he’d be gone by then.

  He kicked the book at his feet—a Funk & Wagnalls encyclopedia (the letter P), which he’d read in bed the night before. It ricocheted off a box in the corner of the room, sending up dust and filling the air with the warm smell of stale cardboard. He still hadn’t unpacked everything, though they’d been in the townhouse for a month.

  “Hurry up, Rod! I need to get your little sister in and out of the tub before Grandma and Papa get here.”

  Roddy grabbed yesterday’s pants, underwear, socks, and a clean brown T-shirt, his favourite. He trudged into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and let the cold water run into the tub without getting in. He took his time putting his clothes on, and splashed warm water from the sink tap onto his face. Roddy soaked his short, dark hair; his mom had cut it the night before. He ran a bar of soap over his cheeks and forehead and rubbed the white bubbles across his face, then quickly rinsed before turning off the water running into the tub. His wet hair and the smell of soap on his face would be enough to convince his mom he’d bathed. He avoided showers and baths; they made him feel like he was drowning.

  Roddy meandered toward the kitchen, where his mom had a bowl of cereal waiting for him, Golden Grahams, his very favourite. Most days, he was allowed only healthy cereals—a choice between Special K or Cheerios, lest he be forced into something gross lik
e All Bran. They got Alpen sometimes, too—but only when it was on sale. It tasted weird, anyway.

  “C’mere and give me a hug, baby. Happy birthday!”

  Roddy sank into his mother’s waiting arms, jiggling around for a moment when one of her blonde curls tickled the side of his face. He was so wound up about Mike and Eddie’s ominous warning that he’d forgotten his own birthday. Not that there had been any big plans, just Grandma and Papa driving up to Burlington. Roddy hadn’t had a birthday party since he was five.

  Today he turned nine. For the past couple of years, his mom—and his dad, before he was switched to the late shift at the Ford plant—had taken him and a friend to the fast-food restaurant of his choice for his birthday. But they’d only lived here for three weeks—he didn’t have any friends yet. Burlington was different from St. Catharines, the town where he’d grown up. Kids were tougher.

  He munched his Golden Grahams, relishing their distinctive honey flavour. It was what his mom called “an acquired taste.” His little sister Olive sat silent in her high chair, slowly lifting her spoon and then placing it back down in her empty bowl. Her autism made her act that way. His mother stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing a pot; when she was done, she’d feed Olive.

  When he was finished, Roddy picked up his bowl and brought it over to his mom at the sink. She leaned down to kiss his cheek.

  “Have a great day, kiddo,” she said with a smile. Her voice was gentle and quiet, so as not to disturb Roddy’s dad, who’d just gotten to sleep in their nearby bedroom. If his dad wasn’t in there, Roddy thought, he could have snuck in and grabbed a pair of his mom’s underwear to give Mike instead of those belonging to the notorious Bettina Inck—or Bettina Ick, as most of the other kids called her.

  Karen the crossing guard loomed over him, grinning as usual. Roddy suspected that Karen would give him her panties if he asked. She was abnormally friendly, like a drunk circus clown, always telling Roddy jokes he didn’t understand and strange stories about her and her husband. Roddy had seen Karen’s husband once, on his first day of school, when Karen was just starting her shift. They looked a lot alike; both had that same peculiar smile.