Thorn-Field

by James Trettwer

  Then I was really good-goddamned. Blue was inside the laundromat talking with the pastor. She stood erect and rigid, arms crossed, on one side of the folding table while he stood on the other. As they talked, she dropped her arms, threw her head back in laughter, and then slowly moved to his side. The pastor put his hands on her shoulders and they both hung their heads, praying. After a few moments, the pastor stepped back, pulled out his wallet and extracted what could have been a business card and wrote something on it with a pen from his shirt pocket. He pulled bills out of the wallet and passed them to Blue along with the card.

  They left the laundromat together and walked past Joe’s, away from the church, him with his laundry basket under one arm and his other hand on Blue’s lower back. Now what the hell was a pastor doing with a prostitute at that hour of the night? He towered over the scrawny girl.

  How was I supposed to redeem myself? The damn thought popped into my head.

  The mailman clunking my mailbox lid woke me up about 11:00 the next day. The thought still there: how was I supposed to redeem myself? My disability cheque was in the box. My pain medication prescription renewal coincided with the arrival of the cheque so I had to head out.

  No one was out when I walked the two blocks over to Albert Street, stopped at the Credit Union to cash the cheque, pay my utility bills, and make a small deposit just to keep my bank account solvent. I headed to the pharmacy and renewed my prescription. I had over fifty dollars to spare. Sitting on a bus stop bench watching traffic whiz by, I couldn’t decide what to do with my extra funds. I wasn’t hungry and even the thought of corn flakes and peanut butter made me nauseous. The Credit Union sign gleaming up the street seemed to beckon so I headed back there.

  A young plump teller with frizzy hair and a fuzzy pink sweater gave me a cursory glance when I asked for a new fifty-dollar bill. “It’s for a gift,” I told her. She returned from the cash machine and handed me the bill.

  “Thanks. My daughter will appreciate it.” I folded the bill and stuffed it into my front jeans pocket. The girl raised her eyebrows then looked over my shoulder at the next customer in line.

  Back at home, I plopped down in my recliner and fondled the fifty in my pocket. Then I went to sleep for a while and came back just as Pork-Belly pulled up outside. Blue was out and rolled her eyes and slumped her shoulders at his approach. He paid, took her hand, and dragged her over to the laundromat. Blue’s arm was fully extended as he beetled along at flank speed. White-Dress shook her head as they disappeared into the laundromat. I retrieved my screwdriver from the front hall closet and the whetstone from a kitchen drawer. I stroked the tip of the screwdriver with the stone.

  Eventually, he wandered back to his car with his smug, horn-dog rooster strut, and then he had the gall to have another cell phone conversation. All the while I stroked the screwdriver tip with the stone. Stroked and stroked some more.

  It seems all I did from that time to the following Saturday night, just past dusk, was hone the edge of the screwdriver. Blue wasn’t around but I’d be damned if that Saturn wasn’t trolling the streets all day. I fondled my screwdriver while I watched and waited for him to park in front of my house. I pondered the possibilities until I saw Blue walk into Joe’s.

  Pork-Belly must have spotted her too because he was parked in front of my house within moments and waddling toward Joe’s. I had about twenty minutes.

  It must have been the ibuprofen. I felt miles from myself. I would not be one of Kafka’s hapless heroes bogged by bureaucracy. I headed outside with my screwdriver. The stereo wars had yet to fire a volley and the streets were deserted that moonless and cool, early August night. At the pay phone outside the laundromat I called 9-1-1.

  When the operator answered, I said, “Some fat guy with a brown Saturn SL1 just dragged a young girl into the laundromat next to Joe’s. I think she’s in trouble.” I gave the laundromat’s address, a description of Pork-Belly’s car, and my own address for the vehicle’s location.

  When the operator asked who I was, I replied, “I’m really worried about that girl,” and hung up.

  I had only punctured two tires on the passenger side of Pork-Belly’s car before I began to worry. The cops never used their sirens in this neighbourhood and they might show up any second, so I darted inside my house and peeked out between the curtains. Pork-Belly must have been late for a function with his wife. Already he was speeding from the laundromat with his obnoxiously light step as a police cruiser, its roof-bar lights inactive, pulled up behind a beat-up Chevy van across the street from my house. Another cruiser pulled up a little way down from Joe’s. Blue lurked in the doorway of the laundromat. Pork-Belly obliviously headed for his car. As he reached for his door handle, there was a blaze of flashing blue, red, and white lights, and four cops had him across the hood, arms cuffed behind his back.

  Blue turned will-o’-the-wisp and disappeared.

  The next hour-and-a-half was anti-climactic. Cop cars came and went. Pork-Belly sulked in the back seat of the laundromat cruiser. Neighbourhood denizens came, gawked, and left. A cop knocked on my front door with his flashlight and then shone the light around, right across the front window, then wandered off. Pork-Belly was driven away and his car was dragged onto the back of a flatbed tow-truck. My spine burned and my lower back screamed at me but I stayed stock-still. I continued to watch until only the cruiser across the street remained. The dome light was on inside and I could see the cops writing on their clipboards and entering data into their on-board computer. They were just getting ready to head out when Blue wandered up to the car from behind. She stopped at the cruiser and leaned in the passenger side window. She and the cops chatted. The driver laughed and then the cruiser peeled away, with both cops waving out their windows. Blue gave them a quick wave back.

  Then she turned toward my house and looked directly at my front window. Blue looked right at me. Then she crammed her hands into her skirt pockets and shuffled off, head down. I couldn’t get to my ibuprofen fast enough.

  Pork-Belly never came back. For the next few days Blue’s step seemed lighter and she didn’t look nearly as bored. Business dropped off with the increase in police cruiser drive-bys. I was mildly concerned about the possible financial hardship the girls may have to face. But at least Pork-Belly’s vinyl-wrapped crap car wasn’t contaminating my street anymore.

  I felt bad for Blue as she wandered pointlessly from day to day. I needed to help her out somehow. But why should I? I fondled the fifty-dollar bill constantly in my front pocket. White-Dress and Blue lounged in the shade in front of Joe’s. Not my business. What did I care? I didn’t care. When White-Dress wandered away from Joe’s, Blue looked so forlorn, all alone, leaning against the window of the store, feet and bare legs stretched out in front her. Not my concern.

  I crossed the intersection on a diagonal.

  Blue stood up straight when she saw me. She took one step forward with the slightest smile on her face. Then she became nonchalant and slouched her shoulder against the window.

  What the hell was I doing? I neared the curb. Felt the fifty. I hesitated, considered turning back and stepped up. My toes slipped off the curb and I stumbled forward, just catching myself before I did a face plant.

  “You okay?”

  My face burned. “You’re too cool, Brewster,” I mumbled.

  Blue said, “Huh?”

  “If I was any more clumsy, I’d be, like, a quadriplegic.”

  Blue laughed. She threw her head back and let out three chortling gasps in her gravelly voice. She said, “Yeah, I wondered how you’d make out in this neighbourhood.”

  I liked the way her hair fell over her face and seemed to meld with her freckles. I said, “Well, I don’t get out much and I don’t talk to strangers.”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “You’re no stranger.”

  Blue sniggered. “Yeah, I know. You watch me through your window.”

  “No way,” I said in a high-pitched squeak.
My face was in flames.

  She pointed at my house. “I watched you move in. Think I can’t see you?”

  I didn’t believe it. But when I looked over, the west sun was streaming directly into my living room, the walls were lit up and my recliner was in plain view even though it was pushed back from the window.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” I muttered.

  Blue seemed to shrink. She took a deep breath. “So why’d you watch me? I’m nothing. Nobody looks at me.” When I didn’t answer, she continued, “What do you want, anyways?”

  I wanted to sleep. I wanted to go to the place of missing time — no matter how much of it was lost. But I was afraid of walking away, not finishing whatever the hell I had set out to do.

  So I simply plopped down on the sidewalk and leaned my back against Joe’s. I sat right beside Blue — almost touching her bare leg. The rough brick of the storefront jabbed into my back, kind of a soothing tingle. I crossed my arms round my upraised knees, leaned forward and closed my eyes. My mind was a complete blank.

  Blue shifted and I could feel heat from her leg against my bare arm. I kept my eyes closed. After a long, long silence where I could have sworn I’d gone to sleep, Blue said, “You know what I am, don’t you?”

  “I know what you do.” I hesitated. “So how much time does fifty bucks get me?”

  I could sense her slump before she mechanically listed a few available options for that price.

  “No.” My aggressive tone caused her to move slightly away. I noticed the immediate lack of warmth and I didn’t like it. I looked up at her and said softly, “No. How much time? I’m not interested in that other stuff. Anyway — I can’t. With the medication and all. How much time?”

  I could see she was tensing to maybe run for it. I was way too strange for her. This wasn’t the straightforward demands of the men she was used to dealing with. I pulled the fifty out of my pocket and waved it at her. “How long?”

  She hesitated. Then snatched the bill. “What do you want for it?”

  “I don’t care. Maybe an Orange Crush. Buy us a couple. Keep the change.”

  I leaned my head against my crossed arms again. Then I sensed she was gone — for good, probably.

  But she actually came back with the pop. She sat down on the pavement beside me and opened them. She handed me a bottle. I held it against my forehead, feeling its coolness.

  Blue said, “Do you really wanna just sit here?”

  “Sure. Easy money.”

  “You’re a nut case, hey?” She didn’t just up and leave. She didn’t slap my face or stab me dead. She simply said, “You wanna talk or something?”

  I set my bottle down. “Sure. Talk. Start with your name.”

  “Lydia.” She finished her drink while she gave me a summary of her life. I only half listened, numbly, thinking only about ibuprofen, while she recounted her story. Broken home, physical and sexual abuse, drug addiction, life on the street, search for a way out, inability to act. It sounded too pat and I wasn’t sure how much of it was true. But I didn’t really care. We all have our problems. I didn’t say so out loud.

  “I’m pathetic, hey?”

  I slowly turned my head and reached out to take her hand. She recoiled, shifting her whole body away.

  I said, “We all wallow in our inaction. We don’t have to, if we really don’t want to, but we do.”

  She blinked at me, her face blank, and shook her head slightly.

  I said, “You are not pathetic.” I must have got the emphasis right that time because she tentatively took my hand. It felt nice.

  I stood and then helped her up. “There is something I want after all.”

  Blue, or Lydia, if that was her real name, shrugged and said, “You paid.”

  I hugged her. At first, she stood rigidly, then relaxed as I splayed my hands out over her back, under her jacket but outside the tube-top. She put her arms around my waist and leaned her face into my chest. I held her for a minute and felt the ridges on her spine protruding like the backbone of a starved old cat. Nothing but bone on her scrawny body.

  I stepped back, ran my fingertips across the freckles on her left cheekbone, turned, and walked away. I needed my medicine. Lots of it.

  She said, “You know we don’t hug our tricks.”

  “Maybe see you around,” I said without looking back.

  At home, I ignored a goldenrod church notice sticking out of my mailbox and descended into an ibuprofen stupor which lasted for a day and a half.

  Blue disappeared.

  I kept watching the street, not caring if I could be seen or not. There was a delirium of panic. Ibuprofen. More panic. More ibuprofen and lots of missing time. Did I cause her disappearance? Ask White-Dress? No. More ibuprofen fixed that idiotic notion. The ibuprofen ran out and I could not manage an extended bus journey so I took the last of my money and headed to Joe’s.

  I stumbled through Joe’s front door. He kept his various medicines behind the counter with his tobaccos. I ripped open the package the instant he handed it to me, fumbled with the bottle top and safety seal, and popped some pills. Then I paid his extortion prices. Joe just went back to his Guns and Ammo, and I left.

  I almost crashed into the pastor dude. He caught me by my shoulders. Blue was with him. Euphoria — she was all right!

  The pastor let me go. “Could we talk to you, please? Only if you have a moment, of course.”

  I glanced back and forth between them. “Why?”

  He said, “This is a remarkable coincidence, if you choose to word it that way. Lydia is here to confront her past. Interesting timing, your presence at this very moment, you think?”

  “Uh, if you say so.”

  “Your previous act of kindness. She told me. Kindness from a stranger is one of a number of things that have happened to Lydia to guide her away from life on the street to embark on her walk with the Lord.”

  I held my hand toward Blue — or Lydia, assuming she wouldn’t lie to a pastor about her real name. “Well, I hope it works out for you.”

  She grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Eyes downcast, she said, “I need to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  She could only look at my chest and shake her head.

  The pastor said, “More than you realize. You have been mentioned numerous times over the past week.”

  “My role in whatever’s happened, I’m sure, is overrated.” I looked at Lydia’s freckles and said to her, “That’s great — you getting out of your situation.”

  “She didn’t do it alone,” the pastor said. “And you didn’t act on your own either. You both had guidance from a higher power. I’d like you to give that some consideration.”

  “Sure thing, Father.” The pastor didn’t correct me. “Look after her, will you.” I walked away at a fast clip. I needed my recliner because the pills were kicking in.

  I was half way across the intersection when Lydia called, “I’ll be at the church on Sunday.”

  And here she is. She’s been at the church every Sunday since. She lingers after the other members of the prayer circle head toward the barbecues. The pastor always strolls up to her and puts his hand on her shoulder; she always watches my bedroom window. In a minute they will turn away. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t see me. After all, the sun’s shining into the front of the house by this time of the day.

  Iliana’s Daily Reminders

  EVERY MORNING IS THE SAME. Grey daylight oozes in through the bedroom window.

  Bertram awakes with a start. The throb in both knees is immediate. The fall dampness plays hell on the joints. He sits up and feels a dull lump of something in his abdomen. The doctor doesn’t know what it is and can’t find anything wrong so he prescribes pills.

  He has dreamt of his beloved Iliana again. She stands in a circle of light just inside the bedroom door. She holds her palms toward him and tells him, not yet. This is when he awakens. He sighs and rubs his eyes, making them water.

  They
were together for fifty years. Spouses, friends, lovers, life partners. He feels half his body has been torn away, and he is teetering on one leg. Ready to topple.

  The diabetes ate her up; the doctors hacking away pieces of her bit by bit; medical staff repeating that she could only be made comfortable. They assured him she couldn’t feel any pain.

  Iliana is cradled in his arms, her cheek in his chest. He can feel the damp of her sweat through his shirt. Her breathing, slow, shallow. She moans. Her head lolls back. Lids half open, her once-piercing blue eyes are faded grey orbs. The slightest smile is on her lips. She seems to know he is there.

  He sees Iliana smile and hears the rattle of her breath over and over again.

  His eyes have stopped watering but the pain in his abdomen creeps up into his heart. He knows what this pain is. The worst pain of them all. He no longer tells the doctor about it.

  What day is it anyway?

  He slips on his glasses and looks at the calendar the home-care lady left him on her very last visit. It’s Wednesday. The monthly trip to the doctor. The day to buy more pills.

  Well, at least that’s something to do today.

  First, the morning routine. Empty the colostomy bag. Check there’s a new one in case of another accident. A hot bath to ease the pain in the knees. A breakfast of a poached egg and one slice of toast. One cup of coffee while he watches the world news. Only one cup. He loves his coffee but it makes his stomach hurt.

  Then the multitude of pills. First, the ones he understands; a multi-vitamin, an iron pill with a B-12 supplement, and a children’s ASA. Then an orange one, white one, pink one, and never forget the little yellow one, or he will feel like puking all day. A second little yellow one at bedtime and for sure the light-blue one or he can’t sleep. The home-care lady made up a colour-coded chart. She suggested he use Iliana’s daily pill reminder instead of buying a new one.

  He washes the breakfast dishes, slowly, to fill the morning.

  The dishes are done already. No need to clean the bathroom. He does that Mondays. Tuesdays, vacuuming. He stands and stares out the window. The day is drizzly. The glass of the office building across the street reflects the barren grey of the sky as clouds swirl overhead.