Bursting Bubbles

by Dyan Sheldon

  “Tell me about it,” says Asher. Not so much mysterious as totally beyond belief.

  “Come on, come on…” She opens his door without warning and he nearly falls on top of her. “I’ll make us some coffee and explain what’s happening.”

  Coffee. She’s making coffee. In that cesspool they call an urn. She’s determined to kill him this morning, one way or another.

  She gives him a sudden squeeze. “Oh, I am so happy to see you, Asher! Come on, let’s get inside.”

  Possibly because he’s too shocked by the unaccustomed hug (his father doesn’t go in for spontaneous displays of affection), Asher, the boy who has disputed every grade he’s gotten below an A since elementary school, doesn’t argue with her. Nor does he pick up the envelope from the passenger seat, thrust it into her hands, slam the door and roar out of town. He locks the car and follows her inside, agreeing that it’s a beautiful morning.

  The reason Mrs Dunbar was suggesting to God over her toast that it would be good if Asher showed up early is because a group of volunteers is Hunting for Hunger today. They might not be able to climb, carry, lift or bend but apparently they can all shoot. Which means that she’s going to be more short-staffed than usual.

  Is there nothing this woman says or does that doesn’t surprise him?

  “You’re going hunting?” echoes Asher.

  “Me? Go hunting?” The partitions shake with her laughter. “Oh, I don’t think so. I’d be more likely to hit myself than anything else. Even if the deer came up and sat at my feet.”

  At least she’s right about that.

  “I just thought – you know, because you came armed…”

  “Oh, the gun!” She pats the gun in question in what strikes Asher as a very reckless way. “This isn’t mine. It’s Carlin’s. My husband borrowed it. I’m just bringing it back so Carlin can go on the hunt.”

  What astounds him more? That a minister borrowed a gun for some unknown reason? Or that he borrowed it from a man with addiction issues?

  “I know it’s none of my business, Mrs Dunbar, but—” Asher takes a deep breath— “but do you really think that’s wise?”

  “Giving Carlin back his gun?”

  “No, not that. I mean … I just wondered if he can be trusted with a weapon like that.”

  “Of course he can. He’s a damn good shot.”

  “I mean, in light of his drinking problem.”

  “What drinking problem?”

  Although Asher hasn’t seen him in that state since, he reminds her of his first morning, Carlin asleep on the couch, unable to help with the flood in the cellar. And his homelessness and chronic unemployment.

  Between Mrs Dunbar’s gait and her laugh, it’s a wonder there’s a partition still standing in the centre – or a building in the town. “Oh, he wasn’t drunk, Asher. It’s true he’s having trouble finding work, but Carlin doesn’t have a problem with alcohol. What he has is a bad back. Some days he’s lucky he can walk.”

  “Oh,” says Asher. “A bad back.”

  Mrs Dunbar picks up two moderately clean cups from beside the urn. “So, let’s talk about today,” she says. “I can get one of the mothers to take over story hour, that’s no problem.” She pours them each a cup of coffee Superman couldn’t see through. “But this is the Saturday we give CV and job application advice, and I have no one who can do that.”

  Asher stares into his cup. There’s something in it besides melted tar, but he can’t decide if it’s moving or not. It can’t be moving. This coffee would kill a cockroach.

  “So what do you think?”

  Asher looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “About the job advice session.”

  Asher blinks. You can’t take your eyes off this woman for a second. “Do you mean me?”

  “You’re perfect,” crows Mrs Dunbar. “Look at you! Neat, well dressed, extraordinarily well organized, articulate, a straight-A student. And with a keen legal mind, used to thinking around corners and outside the box.”

  He’s sure he never told her who his father is or about his own career strategy, but, somehow, she seems to know.

  “Yeah, but I’m only a high-school student.”

  Mrs Dunbar bangs him on the shoulder, making him spill coffee all over his shoes. “These people aren’t applying for positions at Harvard, Asher. You’re more than qualified to help.”

  There isn’t a napkin in sight. Of course.

  “The thing is, Mrs Dunbar…” Asher looks right at her, trying to ignore his shoes and his fear that the brew can eat through leather. “The thing is that I have something else—”

  Something else to do this morning, is what he is trying to say, but she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence.

  “I know you have a lot of abilities and interests, Asher. You’ve already proved that. And I certainly don’t want to dictate to you.”

  Heaven forbid.

  “As you know, that isn’t the way we work here. But these advice days only happen once every six weeks, and they are very important. Our people count on them.”

  Which means that it might be better not to have half your staff going out to gun down Bambi on a day when you’ve planned such an important event.

  “Well, maybe things could be organized a little better,” suggests Asher. Mildly. “You know, in the future.” Hoping he sounds more diplomatic than he feels. “You know, to avoid scheduling conflicts like this.”

  “Oh, organized.” Mrs Dunbar sighs. “You sound like my husband. He’s a very organized man. Even his socks are arranged by weight and colour.”

  So are Asher’s. She should see his medicine chest and DVD collection. Then again, perhaps she doesn’t have to.

  “But you are organized, aren’t you?” Her smile brightens. “I bet you could whip things into shape around here.”

  “Oh, Mrs Dunbar, I think you—”

  “It’s no use saying I should. Organization just isn’t in my nature.”

  Now there’s a revelation.

  She shrugs in an and-so-it-goes kind of way. “And as I always say to Mr Dunbar, the lilies of the fields aren’t organized, either, but they manage just fine, don’t they?”

  Asher is so blind-sided by the lilies of the field and their organizational skills that he finds himself following her to one of the larger cubicles with no further protest.

  She knocks over a plastic cup filled with pencils, and pulls out the top drawer of the old file cabinet with such force that it crashes to the floor.

  Asher positions himself out of range while she explains how the advice sessions work. If people have filled out an application or written a CV, you check it over for them. If they haven’t, you help them do it. If they have questions, you answer them. As soon as Mrs Dunbar shambles off, the walls of Asher’s cubicle shivering in her wake, he calls his kwoon to say he can’t make it to class. His teacher is an international champion, a man who is something of a legend in the world of martial arts. To him, Asher can say no.

  It’s another day that could only seem longer if he were hanging by his ankles. Following the example set by the lilies out in the fields, there are no set appointments. He takes them as they come, one at a time. What surprises him is how many people show up. He expected them to line up for the free food – that’s a no-brainer – but another thing Asher’s father taught him is that people only listen to advice when they’re paying a lot for it. And yet there they are, sitting stiff with nerves in the waiting area: men and women, young, not so young, and old. A few have even dressed up for the session, wearing a suit or a good dress, practising making a good impression. The sight of Asher, who is not only younger than any of them but who has never had so much as a job mowing lawns or washing cars, doesn’t seem to throw them at all. They don’t look annoyed; what they look is desperate.

  It doesn’t take much time for Asher to figure out where the desperation comes from. Never mind applying for a position at Harvard, most of these people would have trouble applying for a
janitorial job at a community college. They have limited education and limited skills. They’re too old or they’re too young. They’re underqualified or overqualified. They have disabilities and difficult work histories. Some of them have never managed to get more than a temporary, marginal job that gave them little money and no benefits. Others had jobs for decades and were let go when the business outsourced, moved or went bust – leaving them with no pension, no savings, no health insurance. Most of them get no further on their applications than name, address and date of birth.

  After the third person whose CV is as white as the snows of Siberia, Asher starts getting creative. Lawn-mowing and hedge-trimming become gardening. Housewife becomes accounting, administrative, cooking and cleaning experience. Babysitting is childcare.

  “Every skill you have is useful,” Asher hears himself saying. “Think of all the things you know how to do. Driving. The Heimlich manoeuvre. Putting up shelves. Anything. Put it all down.” He finds himself suggesting that what they need are group workshops where they can practise being interviewed and give each other feedback.

  Mrs Dunbar, who (no doubt called by her guardian angel) appears in the cubicle as this idea is flying off the top of his head, thinks it’s great. “Fresh blood,” she cries. “That’s what we’ve needed! Fresh blood!” Not so much a crisis centre as a coven of vampires.

  The last person Asher sees is Shelley Anne Rebough. Shelley Anne is thirty-two and has never had a job, unless you count babysitting when she was in high school.

  “I had my kids kind of young,” says Shelley Anne, “so, you know, that’s what I’ve been doing. Taking care of them.”

  Instead of planning for the future. What did she think would happen to her without a career? Without investments? Without a solid pension and life insurance? With no portfolio? But none of these people plan for the future. They just stumble into it like blindfolded lemmings lunging over a cliff. And yet (another surprise for Asher) they’re not the deadbeats and parasites he was expecting. He kind of likes them all. And not because they keep thanking him for his help as if he were some prince being nice enough to speak to them. Because they thank him and they mean it. Asher wishes he really could help them.

  “And now they’re older and you want to work?” he presses Shelley Anne.

  How grown can they be? When did she have them – when she was twelve?

  “Kind of,” says Shelley. “Their dad died, so, you know, we need the money.”

  Asher doesn’t have the heart to ask her how many children she has.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Waiting for Mrs Hawkle

  There have been consequences for giving her old picture books away. Which, of course, Marigold knew there would be. This is why Marigold has tiptoed around her mother for seventeen years. It’s bad enough when you don’t go against her, let alone when you do.

  As soon as Marigold stepped through the front door that night, Eveline started screaming – as if she’d been standing there, ready and waiting, all day long. Marigold’s an ingrate. Marigold’s selfish and self-centred. Marigold would just as soon stomp on her mother’s heart in stilettos as do her mother the slightest kindness. Someday God will judge Marigold for her ingratitude and callousness. “Honour thy father and thy mother!” howled Mrs Liotta while Marigold stood stone-like in the hallway, still wearing her jacket and holding her book bag, barely daring to breathe. When her mother started sobbing, Marigold started apologizing. Her mother thundered up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her. Marigold made herself a sandwich and watched a comedy on HBO.

  For several days after that the temperature in the house would have made an ice floe seem warm. Her mother spoke to her, but flatly and stiffly, like a robot with a limited vocabulary. There were a lot of frowns and disapproving looks. Can’t you put things back where you got them? I thought you were going to bring in the mail. Was it you who finished the cake? You didn’t say you’d be so late.

  Marigold’s budget doesn’t stretch to diamonds, but, when she saw no thaw in sight, she bought her mother flowers and her favourite chocolates, and was finally forgiven. On condition. “Just promise me you won’t do anything like that again,” ordered Eveline. Marigold promised.

  Despite all that, Marigold wasn’t sorry that she’d taken the books. The books have definitely helped with Sadie. There has been a real breakthrough. It may not be as momentous as the “one giant leap for mankind” of the moon landing, but Marigold has finally made real contact with the distant, mysterious planet that is Sadie Hawkle. There is talking. There is eye contact. For the first time, Marigold feels that she and Sadie are both on the same side. And it is the books that brought about this change. Sadie is not a dancing-in-the-streets, ringing-bells, shouting-from-rooftops kind of girl. If enthusiasm were hair, Sadie Hawkle would be bald. But she likes the books Marigold gave her. She actually said so. “They’re good,” said Sadie. “And they’re easy to read.” She gets through one a night before she goes to sleep. “They’re not even a little boring,” judged Sadie. High praise indeed.

  Now that she and Sadie are getting along so well – or, at least, so much better – Marigold doesn’t rush off the second the session is over. And today has been especially friendly and relaxed. They’ve laughed. They’ve talked. Sadie read without prompting or pleading, and read very well. “I thought I was doing better,” she said when Marigold praised her. And almost smiled.

  Sadie, Bonnie Kupferberg and Marigold are the only ones still in the classroom when the janitor comes around to check that everyone has gone.

  “Sometimes my mom gets stuck in traffic,” says Sadie as the three adults look at the clock.

  Marigold and Bonnie glance at each other.

  “Then she must be coming via the expressway,” mutters Bonnie. Traffic jams in Half Hollow being slightly less frequent than presidential motorcades.

  They leave together, the janitor following to lock the door. Mrs Hawkle is not running up the steps or racing down the street towards them.

  Bonnie Kupferberg sighs. “I texted her, but she hasn’t answered.” Sadie’s lost her phone and it hasn’t been replaced. “I guess there’s nothing to do but wait for her to show up.”

  It’s been such a good afternoon that Marigold offers to stay with Sadie until her mother comes. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” says Marigold. “She must be on her way.”

  “Probably.” Bonnie looks nervously from her to Sadie. “You sure you want to hang out here? I can do it.” God knows she’s done it plenty of times before. “I don’t live far.”

  “We’ll be fine,” says Marigold. “We have stuff to talk about.”

  This turns out to be a wish more than a statement of fact. As soon as they’re standing on the sidewalk the good mood of the afternoon disappears, and Sadie goes back inside her fully-armed, nuclear-powered tank of silence, standing with her arms wrapped around her and her eyes on the road.

  Minutes pass, and then more minutes join them. Marigold hears the branches creak. It’s not a busy street, and every time a car comes around the corner Sadie starts. Which is the only time she’s seen to move.

  “I’m sure your mom will be here soon,” says Marigold.

  Sadie nods, once more rigid as the lamp post under which they stand.

  “You have the new books I brought today, right?” This isn’t a question; it’s something to say. Marigold knows where the books are – she put them in Sadie’s backpack herself.

  Sadie nods; her expression blank.

  A few more cars and several more minutes go by. Sadie’s pale face is ghost-like in the gloom.

  “So what would you be doing now if you were at home?” asks Marigold. Brightly.

  This question receives one of Sadie Hawkle’s shifty looks.

  “Would you be watching TV?” prompts Marigold.

  Sadie yawns.

  Yawns. Silence. Like a satellite, Sadie drifts out of reach.

  “That isn’t a trick question. Sadie, I
was just wondering.” Marigold leans down to make it easier for Sadie to see her without actually looking at her. “You know what I’d be doing? I’d either be doing my homework or talking to my friends.” Marigold winks. “Probably I’d be talking to my friends.”

  Sadie’s head turns towards her. Slightly. “You don’t watch TV?”

  “Oh, I watch TV. Everybody watches TV. But that would be later. After I do everything else.” Marigold readjusts her own backpack. “You have a favourite show? What do you like to watch?”

  Now Sadie looks right at her. Marigold’s finally found something she’s happy to talk about.

  “Cop shows,” says Sadie. “I really like cop shows.” Her favourite is one called Justice for All. “Because people who obey the law deserve justice, too,” explains Sadie.

  Marigold says she’s heard of the show, but she’s never seen it.

  “It’s really awesome,” Sadie assures her. “It’s like you’re right there. So sometimes you’re really scared and holding on to the couch. And sometimes you’re clapping. And the cop I like best is super smart.” She turns again, so now she’s looking right at Marigold. “I’m going to be a cop when I grow up,” she announces. “Just like on Justice for All, I’m going to find out who did the crime and I’m going to catch them and put them behind bars, where they belong.”

  What a thought. Sadie doesn’t move fast enough to catch a cold.

  “And probably I’ll get medals and have my picture in the paper,” she goes on. “It’ll be really awesome.”

  “It sure will,” agrees Marigold. “That’d be a very cool job. Really interesting and exciting.”

  Sadie nods. “And you’re doing good. That’s the best part.”

  “That’s right. You’d be helping people. But wouldn’t you be afraid of getting hurt? I know I would be.”

  “They teach you how to shoot,” says Sadie. “And I’m going to learn kung fu, too. You have to know stuff like that if you want to be a cop.”