Going Down Swinging

by Billie Livingston

  When we left The White Spot, Todd asked me to come to Woodwards and point out what I liked in the toy department so he could get an idea of what to get me for my birthday. I wondered if that meant I’d have to get him something for his, whenever that was. Then I figured the Welfare was probably paying for it, so I tried to look happy and told him I’d like to have my birthday with Joshua and his mum. We were quiet through a couple red lights, so I changed the subject: “I had this dream last night that I was walking down the laneway to see Sadie and Eddy—you know, the ones whose father owns a furniture store?—and it was getting dark so I was kind of nervous, and when I looked behind me there was a guy, like a big drunk guy, and in the dream he was supposed to be my mum’s boyfriend. Not in real life but in the dream I recognized him, and so anyway, he was right behind me and he tried to grab me, so I started running down the lane and I kept being scared that I’d trip on a—over a pothole thing. But I didn’t. But every time I looked over my shoulder, he was getting closer and then the last time when I looked in front of me, in the middle of the lane, there was this humongous pile of empty beer bottles in cases, all piled on each other in practically a mountain. And there was a little green fishbowl full of kittens and they were all meowing and spilling over, you know, like their heads and paws hanging out over the sides. So I picked up the bowl and tried to climb over the beer bottles, but they’d keep rolling and falling and I kept sliding back down and the drunk guy was still coming. And the kittens kept meowing these little teeny me-ew me-ews, and I kept falling and I was so scared I was going to drop them. And then it ended. That always happens in my dreams, they just kind of end. Right at the important part.”

  Todd breathed out smoke and flicked his cigarette out the window. Then he started chewing on his thumb skin again. There was a big quiet, I guess cuz of how your dreams never sound as scary to the person you tell it to. I asked more about my birthday, what we’d probably do. He said he thought a movie would be good, that I could pick. I did my cheerful smile; I was getting a stomach ache again. “So. Um, where is my mum going to be, when is she moving?”

  He took out another cigarette and lit it. “Uh, I’m not sure.”

  “How come you never told me she found a place, what’s the phone number going to be?”

  “Because she hasn’t moved yet and things have been very tentative, very up in the air, and there is no point in giving you information before I have it all.”

  “Yeah, but how will I—Well, will you give me her phone number? or what?”

  Todd shook his head and blew more smoke. “Your tone sometimes, Grace, I don’t know. She hasn’t moved in yet, OK.”

  “You don’t have to yell at me. You said before that when she was better, when she got out of the hospital, and now you’re just doing this—you’re pretending like you never said anything. That’s lying.”

  “I did not lie to you and I didn’t yell. Just because you don’t like what you hear, it doesn’t mean you’ve been yelled at. And furthermore, just because your mother’s getting another apartment doesn’t mean she’s fixed and everything’s hunky-dory. I thought I made that all perfectly clear when I took you down to the courthouse and went before the judge for you. These things take time. Give her some space, let her get organized, let her find her bearings. She’s got a lot on her plate and I don’t think having you there or talking to you on the phone right now is such a good idea. Let the dust settle.”

  “I’m not dust.”

  “I—you know what I’m talking about, so there’s no point in arguing. Or pouting. You’ll see her. You’ll see her when she’s settled OK. And you’ll see her Christmas vacation.”

  “So once a month till February?” He shook his head again and didn’t answer. “What about Henry? My cat. Is my cat gonna be there?”

  He changed driving hands and rubbed at his forehead with his wrist. “Yeah. Ah, here—” and he turned off Cordova Street into the Woodwards lot and we puttered around the echoey parking place, looking for a spot.

  I folded my hands on my stomach and wished I could burp. “So can you give her my number then? She could call me when she gets a phone. Or she could use the neighbours’ phone. She could call me on my birthday.”

  Todd pulled into a spot, wiggled the gearshift and turned off the engine. He held the steering wheel in both hands. “Sweetheart”—He never called me anything like that before. Usually he just said my name too much. He was about to pull an Anus. “She can’t call you. She’s not allowed to have your number. It’s against the rules.” I sat still, clenching and unclenching my teeth; my stomach hurt so bad I wanted to fold over. “I know it’s your birthday, I know this is crummy and it’s a drag, but there are rules and you have to be patient. I know you love your mom and I know she’s nuts about you …” He was quiet a second and breathed out his nose. “Look, just trust me on this, give it a few days, be patient. As soon as she moves, I’ll have a phone number for you, OK? I’ll get you her number. OK?”

  “Yeah. ’K. As soon as she moves.” I said it to the truck in the spot beside us. “Does Mrs. Hood have to be there when I talk?”

  “I don’t know. It’s her house, Grace. It’s up to her.”

  Todd picked me up around dinnertime on my birthday night. Me and my birthday, just more stuff for Wendy and Lilly to hate me for. They didn’t have birthdays. At first I felt sorry for them, but then Wendy told me that celebrating birthdays was pagan, that lighting candles on the cake was what the Greeks and Romans did and it had to do with magic and was a ritual of the devil and that, on his birthday, King Herod ordered John the Baptist to get beheaded and that story was in the Bible for a reason. I looked at her head and wished for King Herod to come alive again.

  We picked up Josh and Sheryl Sugarman and went to McDonald’s for dinner. Josh was in a good mood cuz I let him pick the movie since I couldn’t decide: Young Frankenstein by Mel Brooks. Having Josh with me felt like I got my clothes back on or my hair back on my head, but it was peeing rain again and cold and I missed my mum. I didn’t hear much of what everyone was talking about at McDonald’s and I wasn’t paying very good attention to the movie. Afterwards, the four of us went to Todd’s apartment. He had a place on Granville Street above a store.

  His place was dark and skinny, like a chunk of hallway. Everything in the room touched the thing beside it. Squished against the short wall at one end was a single bed and beside it was a nightstand that touched an orange crate with some blue flowery cloth over top, a full ashtray and a tape player on top. The crate touched the back of a chair, which touched the leg of the table that touched the second chair that touched a miniature fridge with a lamp on top. His apartment was like, “There’s a frog on the bump on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.” The other short wall had cupboards and a counter with a puny sink and a hot plate beside it. Then on the other long wall there was just the door to come in, a closet door and a bookshelf with tons of books squished into it, and it was touching the foot of his bed. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to breathe so good with all of us in there.

  In the middle of the table, Todd had a little chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday Grace” in blue swirly letters waiting for me and ten candles—an extra one for good luck, he said. Sheryl gave a “weee,” then pulled a green box out from nowhere and put it on the table. I never even noticed her carrying it. There was a little chirpy noise behind us where Todd was scrounging in the cupboards for matches. Then more chirpy noises and he twirled around with a sheet-covered thing from under the sink. He said “tah dah” almost like Mum would’ve, pulled off the sheet and held up a silver cage with a blue budgie flapping its head off. “For you, Mademoiselle,” he said and put as much of it as he could on the table beside the cake and Josh and Sheryl’s present.

  I didn’t know what to say. “Really? Will Mrs. Hood let me have him?” and I stroked the glimmery cage bars.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ve already spoken with her. Oh, here, and this too.” He handed me The
Handbook of Budgies and Budgerigars. “And I think I know someone who has a stand for the cage.”

  I couldn’t hardly talk. I looked around the room; practically half his apartment was taken up with his bed. On the nightstand he had a double picture frame. One side showed a cracked black-and-white picture of a lady and on the other side, a colour picture of an old man. Then, lying on its own was a Polaroid of a pretty girl with long honey-colour hair making kissy lips at the camera.

  Sheryl nudged me with the present from her and Josh. “Here, open ours, it’s going to pale in comparison to a pet bird, but what the heck.” I smiled at her and said Sheryl Sugarman in my head, just to hear the shh-sounds, tore off the paper and opened the box. It was stuffed with shredded paper the same colour green as the box. When I pulled it all out, there was a short fat cup-thing, green with a spout and For in black writing across the side of it, a matching big bowl with a handle and spout that said Tea and another little one with Two on the side. Sheryl showed me how they stacked on each other. I stared at them. “See, Tea For Two,” she said.

  “And Two For Tea,” Josh sang. She reached back in the box and grabbed a green lid. Josh looked at them and punched me in the arm. “Get it? Because you like tea so much.”

  Everything went numb. I wished I could understand what these little cuppy-bowl things had to do with tea. But I was super-thankful and I touched my fingers over the black letters. I kept trying to find words in my brain. “Thank you. It’s—they’re so nice. They’re lovely.”

  Josh did a horse laugh. “Lovely! Hey Mother Hubbard, glad your present’s so lovely.”

  Sheryl elbowed him. “Josh, don’t be such a poop.”

  Hoffman, Anne Eilleen

  23.11.74 (T. Baker) Mrs. Hoffman entered hospital November 22nd after having been beaten around the Little Mountain Project Area. She was apparently-drinking and had wandered out into the evening. She was attacked by two men, and beaten especially bdaly on the head, but was too drunk to remember clearly what had happened. Dr. Klaus will be involved with her now.

  I have not told Grace what has happened – Things are going well for Grace in the foster home. Mrs. Hood has had no problems.

  7.12.74 (T. Baker) Great deal of contact with Dr. Klaus, Mrs. Pong, Mrs. Hood and Mrs. Huffman in the last two weeks.

  I arranged with Mrs. Pong to pay Mrs. Hoffman’s rent for December, on the agreement that Mrs. Hoffman would move by Dec. 31st. Mrs. Pong has been very cooperative. Dr. Klaus has been working hard with Mrs. Hoffman but seems to be pushing her much too hard. He has been telling her that she will never get her child back, etc., unless she does what he says, and Mrs. Hoffman is much too stubborn to respod to this sort of approach. I have see Mrs. Hood several times, arranging for Grace’s activities (baton, swimming etc.)

  Mrs. Hoffman herself was badly bruised in the face by her beating but the experience paradoxically has reulted resulted in her being completely dried out. I saw her today (she was released from V.G.H. today) and she is much better – much more responsive, intelligible and understanding of her experience. She realized that the beating and the apprehension of Grace were direct results of her alcoholism. Her memory is still spotty – many things she does not recall and she believes that Grace was apprehended because of her poor housekeeping. We had a long discussion about her past, her relationships with her first husband as well as Danny Hoffman, Grace’s father, and her problems with her other daughter. As far as possible then, I focussed on the future, on her hopes and plans and what we may be able to probide provide. She is still unstable in mnay respects, and physically weak – her hospital stay also provided her with the first steady diet in six weeks or more as she had not been eating.

  Dr. Klaus has siad that Mrs. H’s liver problem has abated somewhat. He also said that she would become a virtual vegetable in two years or so if she continued drinking. Mrs. Hoffman does not want to see Dr. Klaus again – she is simply avoiding unpleasant facts as usual.

  9.12.74 (T. Baker) There is increasing pressure from Mrs. Hoffman and from Grace for their seeing one aother another. Mrs. Hoffman has started attending AA again (some members visited her in the hospital)and I have had some calls from AA members. I am trying to hold off as long as possible on visiting, until Mrs. Hoffman begins some definite program.

  11.12.74 Mrs. Hoffman has found a new apartment at 2810 Carolina Street – a basement suite with rent at $200 per month. Arrangements for moving were made and she is settling in. I expect that her separation from her old neighborhood will do her a world of good. The new apartment is brighter than her previous one. Mrs. Hoffman has now talked to Grace by phone. I expect increasing pressure for a visit.

  I have had several very hard sessions with Mrs. Hoffman and we have had our first substantial talk about her problems – alcoholism and prostitution. She has grown much more lucid, and the possibility of Grace’s coming home for Christmas has given her a goal to work towards. She still denies that her problems extend as far as they do (when I raised the question of Kingston Penitentiary, she laughed and told me I’d been misinformed. She said it was Jake Carrington, her ex-husband who’d been imprisoned) She has been responding, however, slowly, and has finally gone to see Mary Allison at the Alcohol Foundation. She is regularly attending AA as well. Her health is very much improved; she doesnot have the “shakes,” is not as tired as she had been etc.

  Mrs. Hoffman’s central problem is in her role as victim. From all she has told me, it seems she has led a rather deprived life as an adult, chose partners who closely mirrored the abusive and controlling nature of her father. I don’t have a lot of information about her childhood but the abuse she suffered sounds primarily psychological (Her interests all disparaged or discouraged) Some physical abuse took place as well, though, as her father was firm believer in corporal punishment. She sees herself as a victim of circumstance, misunderstood, lonely, etc. To maintain this image, she has repeatedly done things to sabotage herself or chosen situations that would guarantee failure – and so reinforce her self-image. She seeks dependency, and concomitantly, sympathy. As far as possible, I have denied her these things, and have directly or indirectly forced her to act on her own. Her attitude from November (I can’t do it on my own) has changed appreciably She is getting a great deal of support and sympathy from AA but she has also learned to accept herslef more and do positive things that will enhance her life, rather than destroy it. In this respect, I see her pill-taking and drinking binge, which prompted her friend to call the police, as actually a cry for help.

  Grace Eleven

  DECEMBER 1974

  IT WAS AROUND two weeks after my birthday till Todd Baker called with Mums number. He said other stuff, but the words were just like green shredded paper around the numbers for me. It was after dinner on Monday night and raining harder than ever. Mrs. Hood was ironing in the kitchen. Wendy sat at the kitchen table doing homework and Lilly was on the floor with Spike, chucking the ball across the kitchen.

  “Lilly, stop throwing the ball so hard or go down to the basement,” Mrs. Hood snapped all the sudden and sprayed the sheet on the ironing board with a bottle of water.

  “Wha-a-t! I’m hardly throwing it! It just does it—it’s rubber, you know.”

  Wendy looked up from her homework and stared at the back of her sister. Lilly’s head whipped around. “You shut up!”

  Wendy stared and didn’t move her lips. Lilly pulled her whole self around and told her, “Quit it, Wendy, nobody asked you nothing! Mum, tell Wendy to quit it.”

  Mrs. Hood stood her iron up. “Why don’t you both give me some peace and quiet. I don’t want to hear any more—Wendy, stop doing whatever it is you’re doing, and Lilly, go do your homework.” Wendy gave a little smile and stared more at Lilly.

  I hung up the phone, back on the wall. “Got my mum’s number …” I said it just to say it, even though they weren’t going to care. Wendy pushed her lips up under her nose and went to her homework. I was saying it mostly to her and I didn’t
know why.

  Maybe because one night a week, when Mrs. Hood was at the restaurant where she worked, Wendy was in charge of Lilly and me and I never knew what was going to happen. The week before, she took out a photo album and showed me pictures of herself from the summer. I told her she looked Indian, wondering what it would be like to have that dark skin and hair, like Sadie’s. Wendy slammed the album shut and said, “I look Hawaiian—everybody says I look Hawaiian.” Dinner was ready; Wendy made spaghetti and sauce from a recipe of her mum’s and she put the album away and told Lilly to set the table. I had two things against me so far that night: first I told her she was putting too much salt in the sauce, and now the Indian thing. My stomach was twisting again. Wendy put the pot of sauce and spaghetti on the table and served us each before she bowed her head and said, “Dear Lord, we thank you for this food you have put before us, and we thank you for the rain today that makes the plants flourish and we ask that you give us patience in this trying period and patience that we may endure until the time of the end. Amen.” Lilly amen-ed a little louder than she had to. Wendy looked at me. I whispered amen at my plate. We picked up our forks and twisted up some noodles. Lilly slurped hers in. “Lilly, don’t be so loud,” Wendy told her without looking.

  “Yes’m.” Lilly kept acting like one of the Waltons that night.

  I picked up my fork and held it a second, wishing there was a way I could just eat with my hands. And wishing she hadn’t gone and mixed it all in together; I’d’ve rather had just noodles with butter. It took me a while to get some in my mouth and it was salty all right. I looked at Lilly; she swallowed and gulped at her milk. Wendy watched me. I was going to gag. I held my breath for a second, took a drink of milk and washed it back. She said, “Well, how is it?” Lilly didn’t say anything. Seemed like we were supposed to prove how good we were by not saying how sick it tasted. I moved around in my chair and there was a roll and ping in my stomach. Then a pop.