Going Down Swinging

by Billie Livingston

  For what, a job well done? Pathetic little grunt—soon as they get what they want, they want it to go away.

  So you say, OK, thanks, that’s fine. So, well, before I go, uh, have you got anything in the house you might want to let me have—just a couple tranquilizers?

  Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, maybe you could just flag a cab outside, I’d really prefer you did that.

  Sure, OK, just, I’m just wondering if you could give me anything that might relax me a bit.

  Look, you just—uch, and he storms off to the bathroom, comes back with a bottle of yellow. Here, how many do you need? and he goes to take the cap off. Never mind, here, they’re yours, there you go, thanks a lot, maybe we’ll see you again sometime.

  And out you go with three tens, a five and a bottle of something or other. Can’t see the printing, looks all furry, mm, fuzzy. Maybe you should pop one. Keep coming in and out, wanting something else because your brains gone clear. How the hell are you supposed to get back to Jarvis?

  Sunday afternoon and you’re on your way to the bootlegger, walking down the Danforth. Pretty much sober; had the better part of a beer this morning to work through a Nembutal hangover. Maybe take it easier today. Take it any way you can get it. You stop for a red light. Young guy waits alongside you on the curb. Looks Greek or Italian or something. Sort of cute. Looks sideways at you—black dinner plates for eyes, crazy-long lashes like a Shetland pony. Light turns green. You eye each other, lift feet off the curb. You hesitate and pull yours back, he steps off, looks over his shoulder and curls a corner of his mouth up at you. You smile back, look down as your shoes saunter all silky across the road before you look at him again. He cocks his head at you. Nobody’s said boo yet, but you follow in the direction he cocks. He slows his gait, lets you catch up, puts his hand in the small of your back. Hallo, he says, it’s jus up ’ere. Guess he means his place. Wonder if you should tell him now how much. He hasn’t asked. Maybe wait till you get up there.

  You follow him up the front steps of a rundown house, through the outside door, down a short hall to the inside door. Once in, he just stands there, looks at you, tells you to take off your jacket. You drop it and your purse to the floor, lean back against the wall, wait. He says nothing, burrows those plate-eyes into your chest, undoes his belt, zips down. You start to say something, he says shhhh, takes a dark cock out, holds it in his hands a moment, tenderly, as if he’s warming it in the light, never takes his eyes off you, and starts to massage, slow, then faster, works it to a steady pump. You shift your balance and he gets frenzied, yanking, jerks himself ferocious. He takes a sharp breath like he hurts, you expect it to tear, fall and stick to the floor. But he drags back a last slow gasp, pulls smooth till white syrup spits and hits floor. A single drop touches down above your knee.

  The air comes out of him, punctured, limp.

  Puts himself back in, does himself up, hands on his hips, nods at you and opens the door to the hall. Dismissed.

  You open your mouth: no sound. Don’t even know what noise you’d make if you could. Can’t say about money, can’t speak, can’t think what garbage, what garbage you are. Nothing, just nothing.

  It’s six days your baby’s been gone. And now nights and you’re starting your seventh in a Mercedes. Getting so you wonder what a guy in a Mercedes wants with you anyway. Is he slumming it? He’s still trying to make conversation, he’s telling you about his youngest son at University of Toronto, the eldest is married with a son of his own. He asks if you have kids, how many? You tell him one, she’s seven. Bad enough he’s got a cheap hooker, may as well spare him thinking he’s got an old one. He must be at least sixty, though. Clive. He tells you his name up front. Tells you his wife died of cancer three years ago. Clive finds it very hard to date now because he doesn’t know how to talk to women any more who aren’t his wife. You nod. I know what you mean. What do you mean you know what he means? Your wife didn’t die.

  You’re easy to talk to, though, he says, the most beautiful eyes you have, gentle and torrid at once. And your bones, cheeks like high rolling hills. Have you ever been to Ireland? Looking at you—you’re a little like a place called Connemara—it’s wild with deep still waters and one can’t help but find a sweet kind of serenity in that. May as well not burst his bubble, tell him you’re pilled to the gills, you sweet surrendering thing.

  Inside his house, his tone doesn’t change. Around the living room are all the nice things his wife probably picked out, the vases and paintings and knick-knacks. Everything looks old and expensive. He offers you a cognac and the two of you sit on his chesterfield, cushions pushed into the small of your back, you in your new red jumpsuit, him in grey slacks, a white shirt, gracious and chatty. He doesn’t notice the run in your pantyhose. Just talking and talking about marriage and books and women’s lib—Old Clive’s not for it, he won’t give up opening their doors, buying their dinner, putting them on pedestals. Isn’t that why women were created? As beings to whom we men can cater? True. Should be true. He gazes off every now and then and gives this easy Burl Ives kind of chuckle, then he asks if there’s any way you could consider spending the night, what with your child and all. I’d be willing to take care of you for your time. You look up at the carved ceiling, tell him your little girl is staying with a friend tonight.

  When you wake up, he’s holding your hand, still in his pyjamas, and you’re in the shirt he loaned you. God, you slept, feels like you’ve been dreaming and dreaming, all kinds of soft toffee stories, and now you’ve gone and woken up your old ugly self. He won’t find you so serene and calm if he gets a gander at you now. Like rolling hills—he’ll be talking about your gut. Guess you could bugger off, you got your money—that was the best part of the night, seeing him open his wallet and frown, then go to his underwear drawer. Rita never approved of this, he said, silly old man keeping money in his drawers with his drawers, she used to say. Ha ha, my Rita. And then he handed you two fifties, out-of-his-element hesitant. Is this OK? just something to help with your rent and things. Terribly expensive, I’ll bet.

  You looked at his hundred, kept up the stooge act—the shy leading the dopey—Ah, yes, sure, that would be fine, thank you. Felt like you didn’t want to break anything, sully the atmosphere.

  Here, maybe you could give this to your little girl. And he lisped another five out of his wallet.

  He really is the darndest old thing. Rita must have been something to keep him still so in love. Two of them probably held hands in this bed every night, close, hardly moving, sweet breaths sifting in and out.

  Wonder what kind of cancer it was. Wonder if it hurt, dying, hurt so much her husband’s still got ghost pains. Poor Rita and her sweet old house and her silly old man.

  You are on your way down to the courthouse. Swallowed half a mickey of lemon gin before Danny picked you up, trying to get up the nerve. Man, this is it, if they get you, it’ll be on your record; if they throw you in the bucket, what’s the likelihood of you ever getting Grace back? Jesus Jesus Jesus. Danny’s driving. Humiliating, having to call him and ask, tell him you had to appear for soliciting. Didn’t even act surprised, just pushed a breath out his nose as if to say, Figures. Yeah, well, it’s none of his business anyway—if he were any kind of man he’d be helping out, he’d be paying child support and you wouldn’t have been on the street to begin with. He’s not saying anything, just driving and dropping. He offers you a Clorets.

  In the elevator with two lawyers on your way up to the courtroom: two lawyers and an old man with a stack of papers. Seems both lawyers are going with you—are you getting two? You open your purse looking for another gum, can’t find anything in this mess, seems like everything you own and nothing you need is in there. Take out the mickey, so you can at least see what you’re doing. Got it under your arm when one of them starts snickering. The lawyers are giggling and shaking their heads; one leans over. You might wanna get rid of that, or put it away. The old guy glues his eyes to the numbers above the doors.
It takes a second to figure what they’re talking about, then you feel the gin in your armpit and chuckle too, stuff the bottle back in your purse. The lawyers laugh all the way to the courtroom. Turns out one’s prosecuting and one’s defending.

  Ah, what’re they going to do to you; probably nothing probably. Pimps get girls out every day. Never heard about anyone actually doing time that you recall. Used to hear those streetwalker gals saying Ah they got me in on a vag c. Vagrancy. Nothing ever happened. Dragged ’em in and let ’em go.

  Just that what if someone finds out?

  Most of the time in the courtroom you’re not listening, it’s too hard to concentrate, just lawyer crap, something about no prior convictions, or did you just remember that from cop shows? And a child and social assistance, think that was in there somewhere. And now the cop, that f(ee-iz)ucking cop is on the stand. The bastard who got in on the passenger side while you were in negotiating with the driver, the one who sandwiched you in and said you were under arrest for soliciting. Sitting on Jarvis betwixt two cops. Cops cops everywhere and not a john to fuck. Actually, this pig on the stand is the first guy, the driver, because he’s saying you got in and told him you’d give him anything he wanted for thirty bucks. What a crock of shit, he asked you and you told him what it’d cost. It was only right! Your smartass lawyer isn’t saying a word, so you holler, You’re a liar! from your seat.

  Doesn’t go over well, judge threatens you, tells you to keep quiet, says you display a poor attitude, an attitude common among prostitutes. Fried yourself, idiot. So you stop listening. Let them hash it out amongst themselves, got nothing to do with you anyway, it’s like a play about you where you never appear. Don’t hear again until the gavel cracks and someone says Guilty with Absolute Discharge. A big finger shaking in your face. Don’t make me have to talk to you again, young lady.

  HOFFMAN, Anne Eilleen

  7.20.73 (L. Barrington) Paid visit to Mrs. Hoffman today. Thanks to a visit from a homemaker and Mrs. Hoffman’s own efforts, the home’s appearance is vastly improved. Mrs. Hoffman herself appears to be on the road to recovery, her attire and grooming much more tidy. She has been to two AA meetings and feels that she can do this without admitting herself into a treatment facility. Will continue to monitor.

  7.22.73 (L. Barrington) Saw Mrs. Hoffman again. She continues to improve. There is a world of difference from the situation I walked into two weeks ago. We discussed Grace’s supervision and how things might change when Grace returned home. I recommended that on Grace’s return, some sort of routine be implemented in her life, possibly some sort of community centre with scheduled activities, a day care or a summer school.

  7.25.73 (L. Barrington) Grace has returned home. The situation is immeasurably improved. I have found a day camp available through a local church where Grace can begin attendance immediately. We have agreed to allow a brief interim for mother and child to have time to themselves. Grace is scheduled to begin day camp 7.28.73.

  Although this family seems to have found its bearings once again, I feel this home should be monitored on a regular basis. I will be going on leave beginning 8.8.73 returning 8.22.73.

  8.3.73 (L. Barrington) Spoke with both Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman today. Home situation continues well, Grace attending Saint Paul’s Day Camp and enjoying herself, Mrs. Hoffman attending regular AA meetings. Mr. Hoffman sounds very pleased with the family’s progress.

  I will go on leave 8.8.73. This family should continue to be monitored

  Grace Three

  JULY/AUGUST 1973

  MUM WAS ALL perked up from getting well at the hospital and us being together again snapped her like sheets on a clothesline. The day she came and got me back from Gloria’s, we went to Chinatown and wandered through stores, sniffing the baskets and incense, then into Woolworth’s and picked around counters full of underwear and knick-knacks and plastic flowers and she bought me all the happies she could afford: a package of new plastic animals—Safari ones, pink nail polish, new jacks, Silly Putty. And she kept singing “I’m Back in Baby’s Arms” while we pretended we were stinking rich and filled practically a whole Woolworth’s basket.

  We were both kind of goofy about being just-us again, but I couldn’t help watching her; something about her felt like a big nervous laugh. She finally told me on my fourth day home, like it was just by the way, that the Welfare was nosing around still, asking how I spent my summer. They told her I had too much unsupervised time on my hands. Stupid buggers, she said. My heart started to go. I didn’t want anything to spoil her mood, spoil the feeling that I was the only happy she needed—her forever shiny doodad.

  We were riding the streetcar home from the Riverdale Zoo when she told me and, actually, I wasn’t paying that much attention at first cuz I was still nervous that maybe she knew my secret. All afternoon, I wouldn’t let her get near any of the popcorn and balloon sellers in case someone might recognize me and tell her about the stuff I used to buy there before I had to go stay at Gloria’s. I was starting to feel like maybe I should just tell.

  Whenever there was nothing to do, I’d been taking the streetcar to the zoo. I liked how being by myself let me make up dreams about who I was and I’d sleepwalk all day long doing it. Sometimes I was escaping from kidnappers and had to lose myself in the crowd, or else I’d murdered the man who broke my heart and just needed time to get a plan together. But more and more, I was a rich kid with a mum or dad in one hand and a floaty high balloon-in-a-balloon in the other. I needed the balloon-in-a-balloon, though, for it to feel real, so I started taking change I found on Mum’s dresser, or the kitchen table. Sometimes her coat pockets.

  But then, when all the lying-around-the-house change was gone, I went into her purse. The money lying around seemed not that big a deal, but the purse was way worse. And now, here we were, clanging home on the streetcar and Mum was explaining the day camp thing and I kept looking away so she couldn’t read my mind and hate me forever. Then she said, “I’m sorry, I know you hate this kind of stuff, being herded around by strangers—and I hate the thought of you being gone every day, but let’s just do this and get them off our backs, OK? And it might be really fun; you’ll probably have a grand old time with all those kids around. And you won’t have to be stuck home with nothing to do but look at your boring old mother.”

  I skipped confessing, cuz this seemed worse all the sudden. “Did you tell them about Pearl?”

  Pearl lived next door and we did stuff together. And her mum supervised us lots of times. Whenever I wasn’t at the zoo we did stuff together. Some nights we sat on the front porch and watched the streetcars go by, counted red cars and hoped for lightning storms close enough to shake our chests. We wished on thunder the same way we did on railroad tracks when we drove over: crossing fingers, lifting feet, holding breath and closing eyes. On rainy days we organized my green plastic farm fences on Pearl’s dining-room floor, and arranged the animals by how big they were. Or their teeth were. We added the safari animals when I got back home, and after that, when we set up the day’s farm, we worked hard to keep tigers and stuff separate from the farm animals. Except for once there was a fence break that made a pig and some piglets get murdered and covered in ketchup.

  When it was sunny we climbed the tree in my yard or went to Pearl’s and made up plays about The Brady Bunch or else The Rifleman cuz it was Pearl’s favourite. Or else sometimes we made up this show about two sisters called Julie and Donna. Pearl hardly ever said my name—the whole point was for her to go, “Julie!” and then I could turn and fling imaginary long hair out of my face like Julie in The Mod Squad. But she kept calling me “Sis.” I guess cuz she didn’t have a real one.

  And now Mum was telling how the next day I had to start being at a day camp for my whole rest of the summer. Every single day, except Saturday and Sunday, I was going to have to take the streetcar to a church with a bunch of other kids whose mums were probably getting threatened by Welfare.

  We were separated into six groups; w
e got group names and group stuff to do. My group was the second youngest (seven- and eight-year-olds), the Schroeder Shrimps. The younger group was the Sweet Peas, the older one was the Yellow Tigers. I would’ve gave all my cows to be a Pea or a Tiger.

  We had activities every day and it always started out in the basement of the church, then sometimes we took a school bus to some place cheap or free. The Schroeder Shrimps had a kid that was called “troubled.” James. He hated the counsellors’ guts and waited until we got away from the church to get revenge. Our second swim day got cancelled right in the middle of getting-off-the-bus instructions because James pushed his back against the kid beside him and kicked with all his might into my favourite counsellor. The kid that was beside him got squashed and James kept kicking Wendy’s chest and stomach as hard as he could. Wendy tried to be calm and grab hold of his ankle. Then Gavin, the guy-counsellor, grabbed on James’s other ankle and got a kick in the mouth. They couldn’t stop him, and Wendy and Gavin turned to the rest of us and got us all saying, “Stop it James—Stop it James —Stop it James” all together like the prayer at school. I mouthed the words but no sound would come out. I wished I could rip his legs out for what he was doing to Wendy, but James was red in the face and wasn’t listening to anything. It went on until they got him pinned and asked the driver to turn us around. The bus was quiet. The Shrimp beside me started to cry. There was still twenty days left till school started.

  When we got back to the church, Wendy and the kids went off the bus and Gavin hung back with James. I lallygagged as long as I could so I could hear what was going to happen. But I only got Gavin’s low talking-sense voice and James saying, “Shut up—you’re not my dad,” before Wendy yelled to me to get a wiggle on.