by Glen Huser
The Wrinkle Queen smokes silently for a few minutes. I can see Mrs. Golinowski peering out of a hallway window at us. I give her a little wave and smile.
“I think your social worker may be the biggest problem. Doesn’t he check in with you every week or so?”
“Every month, as long as things are going okay. If I go missing from the Shadbolts, he’ll have the police out looking for me.” It was the police who picked me up three blocks from where Wilma was living when I ran away from the Tierneys.
Mrs. Golinowski is at the door now.
“Come on in now, you two,” she hollers. “Tamara, your class is getting ready to go.”
“Here.” Miss Barclay reaches into her purse and, pulling out an envelope, presses it into my hand. I slip it into my backpack.
“Be sure and get a receipt,” she says.
I wait until I get home to open the envelope. There’s a thousand dollars in it in fifty-dollar bills. I’ve never seen so much money. It seems like enough to run off somewhere and start a new life. No Shadbolts. No Mr. Mussbacher. No Wrinkle Queen rattling on about operas.
But I don’t.
On Tuesday I go to the office building on Whyte Avenue where Mr. Jude Law Model Man has his office. He looks surprised to see me and he gets pretty excited when I take out the money.
“Hey! Good for you, kid!” He opens a file folder and looks at a schedule. “Yup. There’s still a couple of spots open in the August class. I’ll just slate you in here and get you a receipt.”
He has a deadly smile. My hand shakes as I take the receipt.
“You can pay the balance when you register in August. Now, let’s see, here’s a package about billeting and meals if you want to tap into that option, a map of Vancouver and the campus area...” He stops in mid-sentence. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” But I do feel like I could keel over. “I guess I should have eaten more lunch.”
“Watching your diet, eh?” he says.
I nod.
“You’re thin, and I know people think a model can never be too thin. But as a photographer I can tell you that with a little more meat on your bones — say, ten pounds — the camera’s really going to love you.”
As he shuffles papers, I notice his hands. The fingers are nicotine-stained.
“Where do you work?” he asks.
“I’m not working right now. I’ve still got a few high school courses to finish.” I don’t tell him that it’s all the courses in grades ten, eleven and twelve. “My family wants me to finish those before I begin working as a model. But they’re very supportive. They’re happy that I can start training this summer.”
He fiddles with a cigarette he’s freed from a package of duMauriers. I can see he’s anxious to get outside for a smoke.
“Are you going to be there this summer?”I ask.
“You bet,” he says. “I do the photography. We make sure everyone has a great portfolio by the time the course is finished.”
As we leave the building together, I see my bus a couple of blocks down, yell goodbye, and make a dash across the street. From the bus window, I can see him leaning against a wall, smoking, and I know he’s watching the bus.
“Everything okay?” Shirl asks when I get home. “How was your grad committee meeting?”
“Oh...you know. Committee meetings... No one could agree...”
“Tuna casserole for supper. And a big Caesar salad.” Shirl is beaming. “We’re eating healthy tonight, sweetie.”
“Great.”
As I head down the hall to my room, I can see the gremlins glued to the television. A cartoon moose is dancing around in a ballet tutu. Too bad. Tips for Teens is just about to come on.
What I really need is my own TV. It’s not hard to imagine what kind of amazing big-screen television I could have bought with that thousand dollars.
Before they decided to take in a foster kid, my room used to be Herb’s study. Most of the stuff — bowling trophies and the computer — he moved into the master bedroom. But I still run into bits and pieces, mainly stuff from a company Herb had selling some kind of magical car polish. I guess the bankruptcy company didn’t want the five thousand brochures he’d had printed.
I put my Universal Style folder at the back of a desk drawer and cover it with a couple of stacks of Eterno-Shine brochures.
“The creditors did take Herb’s lease car,” Shirl told me just after I first came to live with them. “It was a cherry-colored Jetta that was absolutely dazzling when it had a couple of coats of Eterno-Shine buffing up the red. Thank heavens they didn’t take my 1990 Plymouth.”
When Herb gets home from work, I wait until he’s settled in the living room with a beer and the newspaper before I go in and perch on the ottoman — close enough to chat with him, far enough from the TV to cut through the cartoon racket.
“Hey, Tam,” Herb says through a beer belch. “How’s it going?”
“Great. Everything’s good at school.” I pause. “And I’m thinking about working. In fact, I’d like to get set for a job I’ve heard about. But it involves driving.” That idea just popped into my head.
“Driving?”
“Yeah. Making some deliveries.”
“But you’re not sixteen.” Herb struggles with another Pilsner burp.
“In a couple of months, Timmy...” It’s the first name that comes to mind. “Timmy thinks there’ll be an opening and I want to, well, you know...” I give Herb my most heartwarming smile, “be an excellent driver.”
“Delivering pizza?”
Herb’s good at filling in the blanks.
“Yeah. His cousin’s going away to university next fall. He’s driving for them now. But, if I could drive, I could also help Shirl, driving Lizzie and Lyle to their lessons and things.” I remember my original argument.
It’s like a light clicks on. Herb’s eyes all of a sudden have a bit of shine. Even his bald forehead takes on a glow.
“You’ve come to the right person,” he says. “I actually worked part time for a driving school when I was going to business college.”
10
I wonder how Skinnybones is sleeping these days? Tonight my mind is so filled with the scheme that I think I’ll never get to sleep. There’s that social worker, Mr. Muss-something. Bound to be checking up on her. But how often? And what can we tell him?
When I try to read — I’ve put aside A Tale of Two Cities and hunted up a copy of Great Expectations — I find it impossible to concentrate. Latoya comes in and, I can’t believe it, but it’s actually a relief to have her hovering around, chattering away some of these long minutes of the night.
“He’s going to have to go to summer school,” Latoya says as I close the Dickens. “George and English just don’t mix. They’re oil and water.”
“He’d have made his grades if he’d been in my class,” I tell her. “They used to give them all to me — the truants, ESL...”
“That’s what he needs,” Latoya sighs. “Someone to get him away from all those computer games. His dad says, ‘George, no computer ‘til you bring home the good marks’ and then there’s a big fight...ai yi, I’m right in the middle. He needs the computer for his homework and his dad says no computer...”
This could go on for a while.
“Summer school will probably be good for him,” I say.
Byron has bought me a contraption with earphones that plays CDs, which I have trouble getting to work. But the thought crosses my mind now that listening to something might while away some of this endless night. And, slim chance, Latoya might be able to get it working for me.
She is eager to try, anyway, poking bits of sponge against my ears, popping open a little compartment.
“You gotta CD you wanna hear special?” She’s flicked on the bureau lamp and is shuffling through a small pile of discs Byron brought from the house.
“Götterdämmerung,” I say.
“What?”
“G-O-T-T...”
&nbs
p; “Yes!” Latoya waves a CD case triumphantly. “Some of the names they got for these groups, eh?” She pops the disc into the player and presses a button. There is a storm of static pouring into my ears and I yank off the earphones.
“Too loud?” Latoya giggles. “Let’s see.” She finds the volume button. “There, try it again.”
Ah yes. Better. Exquisite. I love the opening music to this opera. The norns — the three fates — dark figures encamped on the walküre’s rock, shrouded in fog, weaving into a rope the strands of the story past, the story to come.
Such music — the soft, undulating murmur of the mists of dawn, or is it the fire in the distance beginning to flicker?
And now, yes, they begin to sing. The three of them mourning Wotan’s slaughter of the sacred ash tree.
I wake up before the Triple S morning staff begin their hustle bustle. The earphones have fallen off and the CD has, I’m sure, finished playing. For once the Triple S ranch is close to being completely quiet.
I think about the norns, the three fates, spinning the deeds of the world and the overworld of gods.
Somewhere in that spinning is an answer. We weave our own stories...but to find the right threads. A bit of light creeps beneath the Venetian blind. A simple, dim shaft of light tracing a line along the wall opposite.
And then the idea begins to form. Simple as a straight line.
Mr. Muss-something, Tamara’s social worker, will be told. And the Shadbolts, too. A summer job for Tamara. Paid companion to an old woman who needs help at home for a couple of weeks, getting the house ready for sale — or some such story.
Yes. Morning light is becoming stronger. Insinuating its way into the room. The problem shifts to how to convince the Triple S that it’s okay for me to be gone for two weeks. They don’t need to know that the only one with me will be a skinny hard-nosed grade-nine kid. A practical nurse will be in attendance, of course, during my home stay, I’ll tell them.
Timing. It will all depend on timing. Byron off to the Philippines, and then letters. A letter to the Triple S. A letter to the Shadbolts. A letter for Mr. Muss-whatsit.
11
“You’ll need to type the letters,” the Wrinkle Queen tells me. “Letter perfect. I’m presuming you know how to type.”
She looks at me with her little witch eyes. It’s raining buckets out so we’re in her room. She’s on her bed in a shiny quilted bathrobe. Me on a chair by the bed.
On the way in, I ran into Mrs. Golinowski, who practically hugged me when I told her I’d come to see Miss Barclay all on my own “just because she’s so neat!”
“I can type,” I say. “Just not very fast.”
“They’ll need to sound authentic. I’ll dictate the drafts to you. Tell me everything I need to know about your foster family. And your social worker. Have you got a notebook?”
She watches me rummage through my backpack. Most of the stuff I’ve told her before but I guess when you’re a hundred or so, stuff doesn’t stick like it used to.
I open my binder and hold my pencil like I’m a secretary in a TV show. The Wrinkle Queen looks at me sharply.
“Dear Director — no, dear Mrs. Golly-whatsit...”
“Golinowski.”
“Yes, Golinowski...Sierra Sunset Seniors’ Lodge...” She pauses to see if I’m keeping up. “I have arranged for my aunt, Jean Barclay, to spend two or three weeks at her home, assisting with preparations for the sale of her house. A practical nurse has been engaged for the required time. If you would be so kind as to arrange for a taxi to take her on the morning of...check the calendar, Tamara. What’s the Thursday before we go?”
“August 2nd.”
“The morning of Thursday, August 2nd, the nurse will be there to meet her. I will be returning from a business trip a day or two later...”
She closes her eyes when she finishes rattling off that one. Her voice, which was strong a few minutes ago, shifts into a crackly whisper.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. — what was it? — Shadbolt?...” She rattles off another letter, all the time watching me as if she doesn’t believe I can write English. But she runs out of steam about half way through.
“Requires the services of a companion...” I repeat the last words. She’s suddenly really tired. Her eyes close.
“Someone to assist her getting ready for bed,” I suggest. “Etcetera.”
The eyes snap open.
“Yes,” she says. “Etcetera. New paragraph. We are pleased to pay Tamara a stipend of five hundred dollars per week.”
“Sti-what?” She frowns at me. I guess it’s too much to ask that she use normal language instead of sounding like she’s swallowed a dictionary. She spells out the word impatiently.
“We expect Tamara’s services will not be required for longer than two weeks...”
“Do you want to do the last letter?” I ask her when we’ve finished that one. “The one to Mr. Mussbacher? We could do it another day.”
“No. Let’s do it and get them all done. I’ll need to look at the typed letters when you get them finished anyway. Like I say, they need to be letter perfect.”
Imagine having the Wrinkle Queen for a teacher. Must have been a barrel of fun.
“Fire away,” I say.
She looks at me oddly and gives her head a little shake. The rooms at the lodge always have their heat jacked up so it’s like you’re in a jungle. The Wrinkle Queen is looking totally wilted.
“Dear Mr. Muss...”
“Mussbacher.”
“Mussbacher...”
“I think I can figure it out,” I say. “I’ll just take some parts from the other letters.”
When she nods her head, I stow my binder in my backpack and check the calendar again. I have three exams next week but there’s one study day.
“I can drop by on Thursday and you can see how the letters turned out.”
Maybe she’s gone to sleep. I’m ready to tiptoe out when she rears her head and says, “How’s the driving coming?”
“I’ve had four lessons. Only killed one garbage can so far.”
But she’s got her eyes closed and she’s muttering away again as I head out into the hall.
Actually, Herb’s not a bad teacher. Very patient. Obviously not from the same school that trained the Wrinkle Queen.
We have a lesson tonight. Herb laughs at how fast I clear away the supper dishes. I’ve made it part of my proactive thing, and Shirl acts like she’s died and gone to heaven when she sits down and has another cup of tea and watches one of the Oprah shows she’s taped because it always comes on while she’s getting home from the daycare.
The one tonight is on makeovers, and I can’t help bobbing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room to see how Oprah’s specialists change a dowdy-looking middle-aged lady with gray hair down to her waist and another woman who’s overweight and goes around in sweats all the time. Quite amazing, and it wouldn’t hurt for Shirl to take a few notes.
“Oh, my,” she sighs when they come out at the end of the program. “You can hardly believe it’s the same people.”
“So, Tam —” Herb’s given the gremlins their baths and got them into pajamas. “Ready for the garbage can derby?” He winks at me.
Tonight we’re practicing parallel parking. Herb takes the wheel first. He must remember all the stuff he used to say when he was a part-time driving instructor.
“Pull up beside the vehicle just ahead — and you want to be pretty close. Not so close you’re gonna scrape the door handle, but almost, and when you’ve got the nose of the car just about to where the parked car’s windshield is, then...”
He shows me on three vehicles. And then it’s my turn.
“Good. Right turn arrow on. Now put it in reverse and turn the steering wheel...”
This is scary. It would be so easy to connect with the other car. And if you do, does that mean they take away your learner’s permit?
“Don’t tense up,” Herb is saying. “Just take i
t slow and easy. That’s it...now straighten the wheels out.”
He makes me do two more. When I finish the last one, I lean my head against the steering wheel.
Why does everything have to be so hard?
I feel Herb’s hand squeeze my shoulder.
“You did good,” he says. “Just fine.”
Now I am crying. Don’t be nice to me, Herb. In a few weeks I’m going to be papering your mailbox with letter-perfect lies and running away to the edge of the world with the Wicked Witch of the West.
12
Byron and I are sitting together in the Triple S cafeteria. He’s speechless. He holds the vacation package in his hand and keeps looking at it, ignoring the candle that the cafeteria chef has lit on the pink-frosted cupcake.
“Happy Birthday!” I say, raising my glass of cranberry juice.
“But it’s not for a month yet.”
“I want you to be on the beach at Puerto Galera on your real birthday.” I try to look him in the eye but, like his father, he can’t keep his gaze steady for longer than one and a half nanoseconds.
“And there’s more,” I say. “When you come back, we’ll put the house up for sale. And the car, too.”
“Auntie!”
“Now, now.” I pat his hand. “I know I’m not going to be able to live there again. And Lord knows I’ll never drive again. You can be my agent in both deals. A good commission.” I raise my glass again. “And, of course, it will all —”
“Thank you.” He captures my hand with one of his own restless ones and, for once, he does lock eyes with me. He looks like my brother Raymond the Christmas morning he unwrapped a ham radio set our parents had bought him.
Yes, Byron, enjoy your little stretch of paradise. I plan to find my own. The same ocean, but half a world away with the lights of Seattle like the flashing gold of the Rhine. And, inside the opera house, the music swelling like a great wave, beautiful beyond bearing. No wonder Ludwig, the young king of Bavaria, was driven mad by it.
