But he’s likely to be exploited or something. You know that.
I know that. Anyway, he’s supposed to be quiet for six weeks. For the concussion. He can’t work. It’s okay; I talked to his boss. The company owner. You know, his supervisor I guess it is, a total creep, had told him not to bother coming back, if he took sick time. After, what is it, four years he’s worked for them.
So he’s doing okay now? She suddenly feels that she can’t process any more today; she just wants to change into sweatpants, do her laundry — all of her clothes are damp and smell like fish and campfire smoke — and sleep.
He’s on the mend, Cleo says. He’s just worried about his cat. It’s lost. Do you think you could go look for it?
Cleo is the most practical and impractical person in the world. You want me, Mandalay asks, to go around a strange neighbourhood looking for a cat? I don’t even remember what she looks like.
Tabby. Her name is Sophie.
Are you out of your mind, Cleo? Mandalay says. I am not going to do this.
Okay, Cleo says. I just thought I’d ask.
She doesn’t call Parvaneh until later. Parvaneh says, My uncle wants to have a meeting.
Did you mention about the raise? Or opening a second place? Did he say anything?
You need to slow down, Mandalay, Parvaneh says. It’s a phrase she often uses. Not everything can happen at once or as you like it to. We will have a meeting Wednesday, okay?
How is the café?
Not as good without you, Parvaneh says. I will see you tomorrow.
SHE CALLS BODHI and a woman answers: Carol York.
She says, It’s B- uh, it’s Ben’s, it’s Ben’s sister. Mandalay. She had meant to sound authoritative, but here she’s stammering and squeaking. She asks to speak to Ben, and the woman says, carefully, I’ll get him, Mandalay. I’d like to meet you, and your brother and sister. Maybe we can talk about a get-together.
Okay, Mandalay says. And then, because she doesn’t know what exchange this sort of occasion calls for, she says, Thanks.
We’d really like to get to know you all, Bodhi’s adoptive mother says.
There’s something being offered, an exchange of something for something else, and Mandalay sees that she, all of them, must participate in the exchange. She feels her shoulder blades tighten.
That would be nice, she says.
I’ll call Ben to the phone, the woman says.
Ben says, I heard you were kayaking around Haida Gwaii. I did that a couple of years ago. It’s intense, eh?
He says, I called to tell you about Cliff. But you might have heard. And I wanted to talk to you, you know, about going to Butterfly Lake. I’ve been thinking. We should all go together, you know? You, me, Cleo, Cliff. For a week in August. Before my classes start up again.
She’s filled with dismay at the thought. What does Cleo think? she asks.
She’s not really into it. But you could talk to her. You could help me persuade her.
We’ll talk, she says.
Why does this have to be the first thing he asks of her? She can’t really take any more time off this summer: Parvaneh wants the whole month of August. And it never works, she and Cleo together at Butterfly Lake, at Crystal’s house. They are close when they meet here, every month or so, she and Cleo. And they both can manage Crystal on their own — they’ve discussed this. Together, though, they just can’t seem to connect.
And then there’s Duane. Who, of course, she can leave for the week, if she thinks about it. No question. But below rational thought, she feels panic at the thought of being separated from him for that long.
He calls her late that evening. She hasn’t been expecting him to. They’d said goodbye affectionately when he’d dropped her off, but she’d had the sense that he was preoccupied, already moving, in his head, into his work, that he’d call her, as he usually did after a weekend together, Wednesday evening. She had expected less contact, rather than more, too, given his distance — his coolness — on the way back from the trip.
He says, Is everything alright?
Yes, she says.
Should we have dinner Tuesday?
If you are free, she says, that would be lovely.
You sound tired, he says.
She is, she realizes. Very, very tired.
Get some sleep, he says.
She doesn’t tell him about Cliff.
DUANE CANCELS FOR TUESDAY; she’s not surprised. On Wednesday, just after closing, Parvaneh arrives, and then a few minutes later, her uncle, who’s technically Mandalay’s boss, as he owns the café, signs the paycheques, though doesn’t involve himself much otherwise. (And how lucky is that? She and Parvaneh have been able to have a free hand, have creative control.)
She’s only met him a few times. He’s tall, with slightly olive skin, silvering hair, a large mustache. He’s always dressed in linen trousers and a very white cotton shirt. He doesn’t speak much English, or maybe he does, but prefers to have Parvaneh transmit conversations between them.
He speaks for a while, and Parvaneh answers him, and it seems that they’re having an argument. Then Parvaneh says, My uncle agrees that you’re very hard-working and that your ideas and skills have been indispensable to building up the café’s profile and clientele. He agrees you should be making more.
That’s good, Mandalay thinks. But she has a sense it’s not going to be that smooth. Parvaneh seems to be arguing with her uncle again, remonstrating with him. No, no, he says. She understands that much Persian.
Parvaneh presses her fingertips to her temples briefly and then turns back to Mandalay.
Okay, she says. The bad news. Two of my cousins, my uncle’s nephews, are moving here from Iran. They’ve finally got their approval and they’ll be here in a couple of weeks. They’ll be managing the café. My uncle is giving The Seagull to them to manage. They are men and need jobs to support their families.
But what about us? Mandalay only manages to squeak out. It feels as if an enormous metal object has just clapped her on the head.
We are welcome to stay on as staff. Lower pay, shorter hours. Less responsibility.
But the menu! That’s ours. We developed it.
My cousins will learn it. They’ll be helped by the staff who already prepare some of the things.
All of those recipes that Parvaneh had so diligently typed into the computer, asking Mandalay to be specific, be specific, how long do you chill the dough.
How long have you known about this?
Parvaneh says, Only a few days. Though I knew my uncle wanted them to have some place to work if they ever made it.
Why can’t they be staff, and we be managers? And get paid as managers?
I told you, Parvaneh says. In our culture men need more pay.
Mandalay can’t believe that this can happen, that this is permitted to happen. It can’t be legal.
We have so much business, she says. We’ve built up so much business. Maybe your uncle could open a second location now, and your cousins could run that? We could train them.
Parvaneh speaks to her uncle. But she knows the answer already; she nods as she replies.
He’s already planning a second location, she says. And a third, as a matter of fact. But they will go to my cousins, and there are more men in the family to run them.
What about the art wall? She’s set that up; she has the contacts. Only she can do the art wall.
No art anymore, the uncle says, in English.
Her senses finally seem to be coming back to her. She feels light, now, clear-headed. She stands up. Parvaneh, she says. Please tell your uncle that I give notice right now.
She begins to shake, as she walks back to her apartment. She should have said quit, not give notice. Why hadn’t she? She has become too practical, too entrenched in the system, that’s why.
And look where it’s got her. Can they do this to her?
THEY CAN DO THIS TO YOU, Duane says. They are eating steak — or Duane is; she h
asn’t touched hers.
Duane had said: I think we’re tired of seafood, aren’t we? and chosen this place famous for its beef. The thought of the meat is making her ill, though.
You don’t have a contract, he says. You don’t own any part of the business. Your recipes are in the business computer.
It’s three years of my life. I made The Seagull — Parvaneh and I did. I came up with most of the ideas, most of the items on the menu. Parvaneh took care of the details, and we bounced ideas around together. But it wouldn’t exist without me. And the art wall? That is all mine. I do all that.
It’s not ethical, Duane says. But I’m afraid it’s not illegal.
So there’s nothing I can do?
I didn’t say that. Of course we’re going to do something.
What?
I’ll have to figure that out. I need a few days, to talk to colleagues, to do some research.
But you think I have a hope?
I said that we would do something.
He doesn’t seem very sympathetic. It’s my life, she says.
And we’re going to do something about it, he says. Mandalay, sweetheart. We’ll deal with it. Let’s just have a nice dinner, now.
Part of her mind is saying that this is reasonable, that it makes sense. But another part is bristling, disgruntled, stirred to slow-burning resentment.
She says, I don’t want to. I don’t feel like eating.
Okay, he says. Can I order you something else?
She knows that she is being unreasonable, but she is stuck in this groove, now, can’t change tracks.
If you drink your wine, at least, you might relax.
She says, I don’t want the wine. It’s true: Her insides seem be rejecting any food or drink.
Okay, he says. Do you mind if I finish mine? I’m really hungry. He says it so mildly, so calmly, that she’s tempted to capitulate, but she cannot, she cannot.
After he pays the bill he says, Do you want to go for a walk, and again she’s tempted, because she knows he finds walking, ordinary walking in the city, unappealing.
No, she says, and she hears her own voice, small and thin and knows it’s self-pity, it’s only self-pity, but she’s powerless to stop it.
They would normally, on a Wednesday, go to his apartment for a drink and sex, but she asks if he’ll drive her home, instead. And on the short trip there the thoughts that have been swimming around in her head since the last day of their trip now line up, form a pattern.
What is she doing? This isn’t going anywhere, is it? The relationship will never be equal — he’ll always have so much more income than her, and he’ll always be able to choose what they’re going to do. And it will never develop into anything else. She can see that. She’s finally admitting it to herself. He’s never tried to hide it, but he’s never going to want a committed relationship. He’ll want to leave his options open, to be able to walk away whenever it’s not fun anymore. When will that be? Maybe only a few months, or maybe a few years? In the meantime, she will be getting older, and her options will be diminishing. She’s wasted so much of her life on dead-end things: jobs and relationships. She can’t really afford to do that anymore.
He takes the Granville Street Bridge south — the restaurant is in Yaletown — and turns right onto Broadway, and in the dusk the traffic surges and stops, surges and stops, the headlights moving with some sort of pattern she can’t fix. On her street he stops and puts the car in park but doesn’t turn off the ignition.
She says, I’ve been thinking. This can’t go on, you know. It’s not going anywhere. It’s not working for me. You don’t want a committed relationship, and I do, and so I’m kind of wasting my time, aren’t I?
Are you?
She can’t look at him.
Where do you want it to go? he asks.
She can’t actually answer that, honestly. She doesn’t know. Does she want anything different? But she can’t bear the uncertainty, the lack of trajectory, of purpose. It isn’t safe for her. It doesn’t feel safe.
If it’s not moving, it’s not alive, she says. Does she believe this? What does she mean by it? She doesn’t know. It feels like some kind of hard-won truth.
Is there anything I can do? he asks.
She can’t be in the same space with him, suddenly. She opens the car door and is out, has shut it behind her, before he can get out. He does, though, stands looking at her across the top of the car. She can’t look at him. She makes herself look at him. She can’t read his face; it seems expressionless.
Okay, bye, she says, and turns to go down the sidewalk.
We’ll talk, he says after her.
THERE’S SOMETHING MOVING in the little false balcony, the balconnet, that projects below the bay window in her apartment. She notices it one morning when she has slept in and draws the drapes later than usual, late enough that the sunlight reaches the dark little demi-cup. A paper bag or some leaves that have blown in, she thinks. But when she opens the sash window to remove it, there’s a nest, a messy edifice of twigs and grass, and in it, two baby birds.
At first she doesn’t take in what they are: there is naked pink-grey skin, flesh that doesn’t resolves itself into a familiar shape; the flesh moves in a kind of spasmodic flop. She screams, jerking her hand back. It takes a second and a third look to make sense of what she’s seeing, and then it still seems monstrous. They are large chicks, their bodies big as her fists, their skin mottled like something decayed, unwholesome. They flop and lurch as if some vital part of their nervous system has been destroyed. At the movement of her hand, though, their blind naked heads shoot upward on stringy naked necks, hooked beaks gaping. Something scaly shifts in the lumps and stumps of horrible skin.
She realizes that they are birds, but still can’t make sense of them in part of her brain. Some primal reaction floods her with disgust and fear.
She asks the downstairs neighbour to have a look at them. He squints. Pigeons, I’ll guess, by the bills, he says. Here, get me a bag and I’ll get them out of there for you.
What will he do with them?
He looks uncomfortable: Clearly she is ruining his attempt at gallantry by asking. Or he hasn’t thought it through himself yet. He’s one of three downy boys, engineering students, who share the main floor.
Maybe — a bucket of water. Or. Bang their heads with something, yeah.
In her balconnet the hideous babies have subsided into an abject heap, are huddled resting their necks on each other’s backs.
Ah, crap, she says. I can’t do it. Leave them.
They’re disgusting, the boy says. Rats with wings. He’s heard that somewhere, she thinks.
You’re right, she says. But leave them.
She wants to draw the curtain but her apartment would then be very dark. She finds a shawl, tacks it over the lower part of the window only.
Black Ops
HE HAS TO TELL BEN because he needs Ben to go for Sophie. He has to tell Cleo because he needs somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks, an adult to whose responsibility he can be released because of his skull fracture. So then Cleo and Ben in his hospital room, not exactly arguing but talking too loudly for his head. Cleo bossing Ben and Cliff: Ben with his own ideas. Cliff with mush in his head.
Cleo says, you have to report him, Cliff. Whoever did this to you. You could have been killed. He could kill someone else, attacking them like that. You don’t have to protect him or be afraid of him.
He doesn’t answer, screws his eyes shut. He had said roommate. He doesn’t know why it seemed worse that a woman pushed him. He can’t report it. She’ll just say it was a fight, anyway. That he was beating on her, and she pushed him, didn’t think he was so close to the stairs.
And you can’t go back there, of course. So we need to go get your stuff for you. How are we going to do that?
Just find Sophie, he says. Never mind the other stuff. Just find my cat.
Cleo says, don’t be a moron, Cliff. All of your things. Your w
ork clothes, your equipment. Your books. Your new TV. You can’t just let this monster win.
Never mind it, Cliff says. His tongue is swollen. He has stitches in his tongue. He feels he can’t defend himself. He feels defenceless already, because Cleo is taking over his life, phoning Ray to tell him Cliff can’t come into work, then, when Ray said: Tell him he’s here Monday morning or he looks for a new job, yelling at Cliff — not at Ray — that Ray’s an asshole, as if it’s Cliff’s fault, and calling up Mrs. Cookshaw, going over Ray’s head.
Ben says that he will collect Cliff’s stuff. He’ll go with a couple of his buddies. They won’t be afraid. They might even teach this bozo, Cliff’s roommate, a lesson. Cliff, mushy-headed, lets it go. He can’t gather his thoughts, make his tongue work. It’s all wrong but he lets go, sinks down into the twilight, the medication, he supposes.
He’s at Cleo’s then but he doesn’t remember the trip there, from the hospital. He’s in Cleo’s basement, in the finished spare room there. From his cave, his safe dark basement den, he hears their voices, Cleo’s and Trent’s, the kids’. At first they alarm him. He’s not used to them; he doesn’t know where he is. He floats: They’re giving him pain medication, nausea medication, anti-inflammatories. Cleo brings him his medication, and food and water. For a couple of weeks, time is marked off only by her visits, the knock, the opening of the door that lets in only paler darkness, not really light. Cleo appears and disappears. He floats. The food is more abundant and frequent than he has appetite for. Soup and sandwiches cut into triangles, crusts removed, and baked beans or macaroni and cheese with coins of wieners mixed in. Children’s food, comfort food. He sleeps and floats.
He hears Trent’s heavier steps and voice in the early morning and the evening, Sam’s crying, Olivia’s chatter and laughter. Cleo’s voice, which changes pitch and tone constantly. The squeak of the stroller wheels, the muffled click of cabinet doors, the sounds of pots and dishes and utensils, of toilets flushing, of the vacuum cleaner, the washing machine. All around him the sounds, a soup.
He hears the change in sound when Cleo is about to bring him food or his medicine: the plaintive voices of the kids, her reply: No, no. He hears sometimes their footsteps on the stairs, echoes of Cleo’s, and her whisper: I told you, no!
What is Going to Happen Next Page 20
