She was so matter-of-fact, so nonchalant, as if it was perfectly natural to meet in a food bank. Now she knew I needed a food bank, I bet she would tell the other Crones. Then everyone would know. How would I be able to look them all in the face again? I could almost hear them whispering: “There’s Jess. Used to be a waitress here in town. Now she goes to the food bank, if you can believe it.”
To answer her question, I said, “Not so good. No one wants older women.”
“Yeah, we’ve had our uses. Now we’re dispensable,” Claire said. She’s the leading light in the Raging Grannies. Sometimes her extreme feminism gets up my nose, especially when she blames everything on the patriarchy. “But what do you expect,” she went on, “in a patriarchal society?”
I wished it were her turn to go in and collect her food so I could get out of there. I fiddled with my shopping bags. “Do you come here often?” I finally asked her.
“Couple of times a week. Be sure to come on Wednesdays. They have fresh meat.”
“Really? I thought food banks only supplied non-perishables.”
“No, we get fresh veggies and sometimes there’s meat other days, but Wednesdays for sure.” Claire heaved her substantial frame to its feet. “It’s my turn. See ya.”
I sniffed the smell of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes that I’d encountered before when dealing with the homeless. He was an unshaven man of indeterminate age dressed in layers of clothing, mostly ex-army, and a Peruvian woolen hat that gave his head a strange shape, like a beetle. He carried his possessions in a bundle. I bet he’d left a shopping cart outside the church. His eyes darted from side to side, but he took no notice of me. “Hello,” I said, and for a moment his bright blue eyes met mine before they resumed their anxious, jerky glances.
Was closing mental hospitals a bright idea? It wouldn’t have been so disastrous if some other form of care had been put in their place, but it hadn’t, and now people who cannot take care of themselves were left helpless and discarded. My fists clenched. How can this wealthy society leave people like this to fend for themselves? I was glad when the door opposite opened and an efficient woman in a navy apron beckoned me in to a shelf-lined room with two large refrigerators. Cans of beans and vegetables were neatly stacked on the shelves that also held boxes of tea, cereal and sugar, jars of jam, peanut butter, rice, and stacks of fresh vegetables. To my delight there was a jar of Robertson’s marmalade, a treat I rarely allowed myself.
“I’m Jean,” she said. “Now you haven’t been here before, have you?” I shook my head. “So if you’re low on staples you may need quite a lot this time. Go around and help yourself. Look in the fridges too.”
Jean showed me how the supplies were organized into sections, such as canned vegetables, cereals, etc. “Take one item from each section,” she said, “but more if you need it.”
My stack of groceries grew. I took a can of peas and quickly put it back. I had too much. More than my fair share. I tried to ignore the ghoul chanting in my ear: greedy guts, useless, can’t pull your weight, social pariah.
Jean came to help me pack my loot into my bags. “You haven’t got much. Here, take another couple of cans of beans and some more flour. You can’t bake with that.” She replaced my small bag of flour with a larger bag. “The bread’s on a table on your way out.”
“Where does all this come from?” I asked.
“Organizations like SHARE and local stores like Kootenai Moon provide some of it,” she said glancing at cases of canned goods waiting to be unpacked, “but we would rather have money donated so we can shop ourselves and get what we know we need. Then we can provide more fresh food. We get a discount, so we can get more for our dollars than an individual can.”
“Well I’m extremely grateful.” I hoisted my two bulging bags ready to leave by a door other than the one I had come in.
I worked my way around an old shopping cart in the hall and left the church. A wind rustled the trees and on it Swan seemed to float down the hill toward me. Her hair had grown since I last saw her, the day of the fire, and she had removed the long purple strand. She might have looked normal, but she was draped in multi-colored scarves of varying lengths and textures so that she resembled a tropical insect borne on the wind.
“Hey, Jess, howzit going?” She sounded pleased to see me, and I would have greeted her warmly too if she hadn’t seen me come out of the food bank. Whatever would she think? That I couldn’t handle life?
I set down my bags. “Everything’s gone to pot,” I said.
Swan’s eyes widened and she gave me a delighted grin. “Really? Awesome.” She picked up my bags. “Here, I’ll carry these home for you.” There was something endearing about her don’t-give-a-shit attitude; if only some of it would rub off on me.
As we set off she said, “Great idea. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I stopped. “Had what in me?”
“I thought you said you were growing pot?” Swan put down the bags and rubbed her hands.
“Of course I’m not growing pot.” I began to walk again.
“Lots of people do.” Swan gestured to the houses around us before picking up the bags again. “They say that one in four houses in Nelson have grow-ops. And you own your own house. That’s huge.”
I grimaced at her. “I wouldn’t know how.”
Swan was swinging the bags beside me. “We can fix that easy enough.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Haven’t you just been to the food bank?”
I could hardly deny the fact. “Yes. I can’t get a job. Too old. So I’ve no money.”
“Does your house have a basement?”
I nodded.
“Then make it work for you.” A gust of wind blew Swan’s scarves around her so she looked like one of those wind-sock decorations outside the toy shop.
I slowed my pace.
“How’s your knee?” Swan asked.
“Still a bit sore.” How could I get back to the topic of pot without sounding too interested. “Do you grow? Pot, I mean.”
“Nah. I live in an apartment. But I help out people who do. Water when they’re away. Trim. Pays well.”
We were nearly at my house. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
“Some other time. I have to be at work soon.”
“Oh, did you get a job? Good for you. Where?”
“The deli on Kootenay. Part-time. I’m still looking around.”
I opened the door and Swan brought in the groceries. How could I get her to stay so I could find out more about pot growing? “I’d love to hear about your job. Are you sure you can’t stay?”
“Oh, okay.”
I put the kettle on. Swan lifted the bags of groceries on to the counter and began to empty them.
“Hungry?” I asked. Swan nodded.
“I can offer you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, courtesy of the food bank.” I took the loaf and two jars from the counter and prepared to make sandwiches. I couldn’t open the jars, as usual, and handed them to Swan to unscrew.
As I spread the bread, Swan fiddled with the SPCA calendar on the wall. “As soon as I have a house, I’m going to get a dog like that,” she said, pointing to a picture of a black Labrador. “Why don’t you have a dog? Don’t you like them?”
“I love dogs. But I’ve been working too much to look after one properly. I might get one now.” Except I couldn’t afford to feed myself, let alone a dog.
I made tea and we sat at my small kitchen table facing the window and the view of Elephant Mountain. There was still snow on it, which, in Nelson, meant don’t plant your vegetable garden yet. Swan sat cross-legged on her chair. If I sat like that I’d seize up and never be able to stand again.
“So you’re suggesting I grow pot for a living?” I said as I poured tea.
Swan laughed. “Why not?
”
“It’s illegal. I might end up in jail.”
She stared at me through her heavily made-up lashes. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like everyone’s favorite grandma with that white hair. It’s the perfect cover.”
I chewed a few times. Peanut butter and jam on white bread is not what I normally eat. A glob stuck to the roof of my mouth and I poked a finger in to dislodge it. “You mean my age is actually in my favor?”
Swan laughed. “Seriously, Marcus could set you up.” She jumped up to tear a piece off the newspaper, scribbled on it and laid it on the table. “Here’s his phone number.”
“Don’t be daft, Swan. Of course I can’t start a grow-op,” I said, but my insides vibrated. Why shouldn’t I? Or at least find out more about it.
“If you decide you want to know more, give him a call. Here’s my number too.” Swan wrote a number on the same scrap of paper.
“Right,” I said pulling on my ear lobe. “Trouble is, I don’t have any money.”
“His deal is that he pays for everything, takes half of what you make for three grows, then you pay him back for the supplies. Easy peasy.”
I stared at her. “How much do you make? I always think it’s millions.”
“Nah. You’ll have room for four lights probably. Maybe three. If you’re lucky you might get a pound per light. Might. Right now it sells for two thousand a pound. So you’d get eight thousand for a crop about every three months. Maybe.”
Eight thousand dollars every three months. Thirty-two thousand a year. That’s more than waitressing full time.
“I wouldn’t want to get into selling,” I said hastily. If I went to Baker Street who would I deal with? How would I even begin?
“You wouldn’t have to. Marcus does that.” Swan finished her sandwich and stood up. “I’ll help you too. Think about it. Gotta fly. Thanks for lunch.” She fluttered out.
I sat with a second cup of tea and stared out the window. The idea was preposterous. Of course it was. Then I got to thinking about my financial situation.
My meagre unemployment insurance barely covered house costs and wouldn’t last long. Eventually I would get the government’s old age payments, maybe a thousand a month. After house and car expenses, that would leave me about a hundred a week for food, clothes, household items, and entertainment. No holidays; no dinners out; no new clothes.
Eight thousand dollars every three months. Tax free too. Just for growing a few plants in the basement. What if I got caught? Would I go to jail? What if I lost the house, then where would I be? I would be a criminal. Bugger that when there’s those big wigs running corporations making their millions and not paying taxes. Why should I care? I’d tried to get a job but no one wanted an old prune like me. What was it Swan said? I look too much like everyone’s grandma with my snowy hair—but that would work in my favor as no one would ever imagine I would have a grow-op. Not someone my age. Because we’re all past it. Well bugger that for a lark.
I could go and live with Jason and Amy, I supposed. They said they would build me a suite. But it would still be in Amy’s neat and tidy house. I looked round at my comfortable old chair with its worn cover, the newspaper strewn around, dead leaves from the poinsettia on the floor, an apple waiting to go mouldy enough to throw away, snapshots poked into picture frames, and I knew my lifestyle would be unacceptable. I imagined Amy’s disapproving face as she walked in, and she would walk in; it would be her house, not my home.
In their house there were no displays of snapshots—of the kids at the beach or of a laughing family. Instead there were framed formal studio portraits. There’s one of Amy sitting bolt upright with the children on either side of her and Jason standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. They only needed to be dressed in black and they would make the perfect Victorian family.
I loved the children, but I didn’t want them on a daily basis—and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for them. Amy would have too many rules that I would be sure to break. And she wouldn’t like the way I said things like “daft bugger.” There was, in her mind, a correct way to express yourself. For example, she couldn’t say died; she had to say passed. Passed? Passed what? Water? Gas? No, I’d go crazy in their house.
I’ve always worked hard, usually at jobs that don’t pay well. Women’s jobs; service jobs like nurse’s aide, child-minding, waiting on tables; jobs that if men did them would pay twice as much. I laughed. The righteous do not inherit the earth, that’s for sure.
I picked up the piece of paper with Marcus’s number and carefully pinned it to my message board.
7
Sunday dinner with Jason’s family had been a ritual since they moved to Nelson. Helping with the children’s bath and reading bedtime stories followed the meal, and after that the adults had a chance to talk. I had missed two Sundays with made-up excuses: an impending cold the first time and volunteering at the Capitol theater the second. Now I had to confront my resistance. Jason had made it quite clear that their agenda for me was to live with them as a built-in babysitter. It was the last thing on my wish list, but I didn’t feel like fighting over it.
To get ready for dinner with them I made oatmeal cookies with my food bank supplies and arrived at their house vowing to keep calm. If the topic of my moving in came up, I would be casual but firm. I would not get my knickers in a twist.
Nicholas commandeered me the moment I arrived to show me a castle he had built with his blocks. “Wow,” I said. “That’s awe-some,” a word I had learned from Swan. “Where do you go in?”
He was pointing out the features of his creation when Julie toddled in and sent the whole thing crashing. Nicholas gave her a furious push and she fell on her bum, howling. I was about to pick her up when Amy flew in and glared at me before cuddling Julie. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Julie knocked over my castle,” Nicholas said.
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Now I would have left it there, but Amy needed to use this as a ‘teaching moment.’ Still cuddling Julie she said, “Nicholas, you’re the big boy. Julie is just a baby. Babies are not for hitting.”
“She knocked over my castle.”
“You are still not to hit her.”
“I didn’t.”
Amy turned to me. “Granny, did Nicholas hit Julie?”
I ignored her and got down on the floor and started to rebuild the castle. I was not going to be made judge and jury. “Nicholas, does this block go here? Show me; I don’t know how to build castles.”
Dinner passed without incident, but I was on guard the whole time, waiting for some comment about my living arrangements. I had to admit that Amy was a good cook and her table was immaculate. I tried not to eat as if this were my last supper, but I did have twice my normal helping and I could have eaten more, but I didn’t want them to suspect that my diet was wanting. “I was so busy I missed lunch today,” I said casually.
It was after dinner, when the children were in bed that the questions started. “How are you doing, Mum? Any luck with the job hunt?”
“Oh, I have a few leads.” My stomach tightened. If he knew the truth about my circumstances, he would insist on giving me money and then I’d be dependent on him.
Amy said, “Did Jason tell you that you’re welcome to stay with us?”
“Yes he did, Amy. Thank you, but I like living alone.”
“We could make a suite in the basement. You could sell your house, live off the proceeds, and you wouldn’t have to work.” Amy sat back and smiled like an evangelical pastor.
I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Amy, but I value my independence.” Keep calm. They are only trying to be helpful. They want what’s best for me.
Jason and Amy exchanged glances. Jason said, “The suite would be your private place. We wouldn’t allow the chi
ldren in.”
“I know you both mean well, but no, I do not want to move. I’m fine. I have a house and I have enough money. Now, can we talk about something else?” I stared out of the window. Jason cleared his throat. Amy fiddled with things on the tea tray.
“I do like the lighter evenings, don’t you?” I said.
“It will soon be warm enough to sit outside,” Amy said. She offered me a plate. “Another cookie? They’re delicious.” What she would say if I told her the ingredients came from the food bank?
There was silence for a while and then Amy said, “We had some excitement here the other day. There was a bust at the house across the road.”
“A bust?” I didn’t know what she meant.
“A bust of a grow-op.”
I must have looked blank. Jason said, “You know, Mum. A grow-op is when people grow pot, marijuana, in their basement.”
My skin prickled. “Oh.”
“Amy figured it out. She saw something suspicious and phoned the police.” He flushed slightly and wouldn’t look at me. What did he really think about neighbors snitching on each other? At one time he would have been disgusted.
“What did you see, Amy?” I asked. Whatever she saw I must be careful to take note.
“It was dark but they had their garage open and lit, so I could see everything. They were unloading bales of soil and loading a lot of garbage bags into a truck.”
“Isn’t this the time of year for bales of soil?”
“At night? No, I wasn’t sure but I phoned the police with my suspicions. And I was right!” Amy finished, looking smug.
Jason and I didn’t say anything. “Grow-ops are a real problem in this town,” Amy went on.
“I can’t see what the problem is,” I said. “There’s very little crime.”
“No. But there could be,” Amy said. “I can’t believe I ever let the children play over there. I’ve been inside houses that had grow-ops to assess childrens’ safety.”
Gone to Pot Page 5
