Her stomach lurched and sour matter rushed into her mouth. Her cheeks popped out and she jammed her palms against her lips, hoping, praying it might be enough to avert catastrophe. The girl with the bow, at last grasping the severity of the situation, jumped back. She was not, alas, quick enough. Colleen doubled over, craning her neck forward quite involuntarily, and when a torrent of vomit exploded from Colleen’s mouth, the girl with the white bow got covered in a good deal of it.
Colleen’s eyes were closed by then, but she felt an impact on her shoulder and understood that she had been kicked or punched and that she was falling and was on her knees. It was all sensation then—burning in Colleen’s nose and mouth, watering eyes, convulsions in her stomach, and worse, urine escaping; she could feel it escaping and was powerless, in the violence of her spasms, to stop it. There was a good deal of yelling. The voices were male and female. Someone’s hands were on her then, lifting her by the shoulders.
“Colleen! Walk. Just walk. I’ve got her. Let me get her to the bathroom. I’m so sorry.”
“Get her cleaned up and get her the fuck out of here,” a man’s voice said. “Take the other one into the men’s room.”
There was some laughter.
In the bathroom Colleen vomited again, twice, but at least now it was in relative privacy and in, as her mother used to say, the proper place. Lori, best of all possible friends, held her hair and said it could have happened to anyone and not to worry and it would be all right.
After Colleen returned, more or less, to herself, she began to cry. She washed her face and rinsed her mouth and cleaned up her clothes—she had to take her jeans off, wet them down in the sink and dry them using the hand-blower, which took quite a bit of time.
“I can’t go back out there,” she said. “I can’t.”
“You’re going to have to,” said Lori, and her voice was a little less sympathetic than Colleen wanted it to be.
“I want to kill myself.” Her shoulder hurt.
“Come on, Colleen, you’re not the first person to puke in a bar.”
Colleen supposed it was kind of Lori not to mention the fact she’d wet herself. “But in front of Craig!”
Lori shrugged. “Yup.”
“And what if that girl’s still out there?”
“She’s not.”
“How do you know?”
Lori winced and brushed something off her lace-tiered miniskirt. “When you threw up on her she threatened to punch the crap out of you. She was pretty crazy. The bouncer pulled her off you, but she got a couple of kicks in. I think they made her leave after she cleaned up in the men’s room. I’m sure they did. We have to leave too.”
Colleen had, it seemed, been so far inside her own personal apocalypse that she hadn’t even noticed the violence done to her, apart from the dull impact on her shoulder. She remembered that time, so many years ago, when she’d been sick-drunk and her mother had slapped her across the face. She hadn’t felt anything then either. There was something to be said for being blotto.
“I felt somebody hit my shoulder.” Under her fingers it was tender.
“She kicked you first, then her friends joined in. You don’t remember?”
“Not really.”
“You’re going to have bruises.”
They waited until the band began playing again and then snuck out, or almost did. The manager caught them and Colleen had to pay not only for her bill, but an extra fifty for cleanup. She didn’t argue.
The next day, she awoke with bruises up and down her ribs and arms.
She never went to see Bitter Grounds again, and it was weeks before she went back to the Deli.
A WOMAN OF QUALITY
Colleen turned left onto Eglinton. Remembering all that about the Deli and beautiful Craig had brought her down. It seemed her whole life was a series of missed opportunities, of things almost turning out right and then some stupid twist and it all went wrong. She caught sight of herself in the window of a dry cleaner as she passed. She paused, pretending to examine the pricing signs. Early Bird Special! In by 8:30, Out by 5:30! 25% Off!
She looked like a dressed-up waif, albeit a not-quite-young one. Her height always surprised her. She thought of herself as taller than she was, just as she thought her hair wasn’t quite that stringy. How she used to envy girls whose hair went all fluffy and frizzy in humidity. Under such conditions, hers looked like nothing so much as seaweed on a rock. It occurred to her that this red coat, this Little Red Riding Hood coat, might be just a little too young for a woman of her age. But it was Audrey Hepburn elegant, like the slim black pants and ballet flats Colleen had once worn. She had never quite managed the hats, however, nor the cigarette holder. Now it was probably too late for interesting hats. Young women in fabulous hats were intriguing and bold; old ladies in such hats looked like either church ladies or Quentin Crisp, that gay British man who made a career out of looking like a sad old lady. The woman in the window reflection wasn’t an old lady yet. Although she wasn’t as delicate as she once had been, although her smile might not be as dazzling as it once was (everyone bleached their teeth to marshmallow these days; how did they afford it?), she did have that interesting lipstick and, when she remembered to hold her mouth in a slight smile so it didn’t droop and deepen the lines by her nose, she could pass for five years younger, surely. But there were those eyes to contend with. They were puffy, and although it was almost certainly a trick of the reflected light, the whites looked just the slightest bit yellow.
It wasn’t a bad reflection, not a revolting reflection. It just didn’t look like her. Where had she gone?
She sighed and raised her chin, walking on. Philosophical questions would have to wait. Where was she going? That was the question of the moment, and the answer was this: she was going to a new beginning.
C&C Staffing. She would go in. She would smile, and make the best of it, and prove them all wrong. There was something noble, heroic even, in that.
She marched into the lobby with a long stride that bespoke confidence. A woman of quality, with wisdom and experience. In the elevator on the way to the fourth floor she hummed, thinking how much good the walk had done her. It had cleared her head and put some colour in her cheeks.
The door to C&C Staffing was directly in front of the elevator. The silver lettering on the wooden door was missing the a in “Staffing” and some wit had inserted a u in its place with a black marker. Inside, two chrome-legged green couches, with a brass lamp on an end table where they met at the corner, formed an L-shape to the right of the doors. Gossip magazines were scattered on a coffee table and a water cooler with no cups stood near the hallway leading to the offices. Motivational posters adorned the walls. Love What You Do. Do What You Love. A photo of a snail crawling up a rock with the caption If You Don’t Make It Up the Mountain, Try Again. Another of a man standing on a mountain peak, high above the clouds; underneath it said, Ambition: Aspire to Climb as High as You Can Dream. Stains, probably coffee judging from the colour, marred the carpet. The reception desk, behind which a young man sat, was scuffed and a corner of the veneer peeled.
Colleen smiled brightly, gave her name and said, “I think we spoke on the phone a little while ago.”
“Hi, Colleen, yes?” the young man said.
How old was he, twenty? And why did he put those dreadful white streaks in his black hair?
“I’ve got your file here, and there are just a few forms and things I need you to fill out. They’re on the top and the tests are on the bottom. When you’ve filled out the forms, bring them back to me and then you can use one of the carrels in the back to do the tests. When you’ve finished the IQ and aptitude tests, we’ll get you set up on a computer for the typing and program tests.” He handed her a clipboard with a thick pile of papers on it. “Do you need a pen?”
What a lot of paper. “I have one. Is all this really necessary? I’ve been registered here before. You do have that, right?”
He smiled in the way on
e might to a simple child, with his head cocked and his lips pressed together. “Well, we like to keep things current, dear—get the records up to date.”
Dear? Dear was what you called old ladies in nursing homes.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said, perhaps just a little archly, and took the pile of papers to the rickety couch. The place had certainly gone downhill in the past couple of years. This used to be quite a high-end agency.
Colleen opened her purse and rummaged for a pen. There was the friendly little bottle. She let her fingers rest on it for a moment. Wallet. Phone. Keys. Makeup bag. Old grocery store receipts. Two loose mints slightly furred with lint. A baggie of almonds and apricots. How long had they been in there? No pen.
She returned to the reception desk. The young man, who hadn’t even been polite enough to tell her his name, talked on the phone with the chair swivelled so his back was to her. She waited, listening to him talk about meeting someone later for dinner. She coughed. Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t seem to have a pen after all.”
He turned without putting the phone down. He raised his eyebrows in her direction.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Pen?”
He pointed to a mug filled with ballpoints at the corner of the desk and immediately went back to his conversation.
Pen in hand, she began to fill in the forms. Name, address, date of birth, Social Insurance Number, all the usual stuff. And then the employment history. “Begin with your most recent position.” “Duties and responsibilities?” “How long were you there?”
Colleen paused. The next question was “Reason for leaving” and then “List references.” What should she say? This was like a divorce, wasn’t it, but there was no “irreconcilable differences” box to check. Someone had to be at fault, and as usual, that someone was her. What would sound appropriate? What would sound positive? She needed to spin a story that would be plausible, and one that painted her in a good light. All those years at the university, that would be it. She felt she needed a new start, a more challenging position. The last time she was here the woman processing her application had been impressed with her test scores, saying she scored within the top ten percentile on the intelligence test. She’d even let slip that she was rather surprised to see someone with Colleen’s scores looking for temp work. And her typing was lightning fast, always had been.
Colleen wrote, I felt I need more responsibility than I had in my last position. She looked again at the Ambition poster on the wall. That’s it; she was dreaming bigger, she was finally giving herself permission to be all that she could be, so to speak. References were admittedly an issue. But surely Harry Barnes and Michael Banville would speak well of her, given the circumstances—perhaps especially well, since she knew they had a soft spot for her. She put down their names with only a sliver of doubt.
She sighed, unclipped the pages and tapped the edges against the clipboard so they were nice and neat. She’d always had an eye for details. She handed the information forms to the receptionist, who had stopped talking on the phone and was now doing a crossword puzzle. Seven letters for idiot, starting with a and ending in e, perhaps?
“Carrels are through there,” he said. “Let me know when you’ve finished the aptitude test and I’ll give you the IQ test. That’s timed.”
The door opened and in walked a girl of about twelve, Colleen thought, albeit a tall one. She was sausaged into jeans of the skinny-leg variety that had been popular when Colleen was that age herself. The ones you had to lie down on the bed to get into and pull up the zipper using a pair of pliers. If you wore something the first time a trend came around, you’re too old to wear it again. Over this she wore a baggy white sweater and, in apparent disregard for the weather, she balanced on a pair of high-heeled strappy sandals that made Colleen’s feet hurt just looking at them. The girl tossed back her brunette curls and smiled at Colleen, flashing exactly the sort of alarmingly white teeth Colleen could not afford. Colleen smiled back, in what she hoped was a non-hostile way.
As Colleen walked to the carrels, clutching her papers and her purse (affable little bottle inside), she heard the receptionist say, “Hey, Brenda, how’s our favourite girl?” This was followed by the sound of kissing and the girl saying, “Just came in to pick up my check, Kev. There’s a pair of shoes at Holt’s with my name on ’em.”
“Want to meet up for a drink later?” said Kev. “I’m having dinner with Louis. You should join us.”
The girl said something and they both laughed.
Colleen settled into one of the three carrels. She didn’t remember that last IQ test being timed, but she wouldn’t think about that now. One thing at a time. Besides, she aced these sorts of tests. She always had.
“Personality & Aptitude. Part One. Indicate, on a scale of one to five, one being the most accurate and five being the least accurate, where you fall in terms of the following statements: I am the life of the party. I keep my thoughts to myself. I am comfortable with my feelings. I start conversations. I love large parties.”
She ticked off the boxes—five, three, two, three, four. After all these years, she knew what employers were looking for. Social, but not too social. No gossiping. Confidence. She plowed on for fifteen minutes. “I push myself forward. I like to lead.” It seemed so ridiculous. She looked at her watch: 1:35. She’d be here all afternoon. “I need a lot of time to do things.” Five. “I come up with solutions easily.” Two. Page after page after page of utter inanity.
Finally, at last, two hundred questions. Done.
She handed the papers in to “Kev” and he passed her the IQ test.
“You have forty minutes for this one. So, that’s about three o’clock, right?”
“All right.” She returned to her carrel. It didn’t feel all right. It felt too fast. She was nervous. She flipped ahead. Only thirty questions here.
First one: “Car is to road as train is to _____________.” She was tempted to put in aardvark or fruitcake just for fun. But she wrote, Rail.
Which is the odd one out?
Hockey
Exercise
Tennis
Football
So easy. Two more, just the same, and a series of squiggly lines—pick the next in the sequence. Fair enough.
When Jack, James, Jim and Jane stand by age, Jack being the youngest stands first, while James brings up the rear. However, when they stand by height, Jim being the shortest stands first, while James comes to the third spot. In both lines Jane remains at the second position. Who is immediately younger than James?
What? Read that again. Jim. Yes, that must be right. The questions were getting harder.
Which number should come next in this series?
25, 24, 22, 19, 15 …
Think. All right. 10.
And then this:
Which number should replace the question mark?
8 5 21
35 32 12
32 28 31
4 ? 28
a)3
b)-2
c)-6
d)48
There was some pattern to this problem. She could almost see it, but it slipped away. Add the second column to the first, and then subtract? No. The first row by the second? No. She felt a mind-cramp coming on. Skip this one and come back to it later. She moved on, but the skip ruined her rhythm, shook her confidence. She went back and read it again. She stared at the numbers but nothing seemed logical.
It was hard to concentrate and her mouth felt dry as ash. It was altogether too hot in here. She thought of getting water but remembered there were no cups at the cooler, and besides, she was being timed. Her heart beat too quickly. Abandoning that problem, she moved on to the next—but couldn’t get the gist of that one either.
At the end of a banquet 10 people shake hands with each other. How many handshakes will there be in total?
a)100
b)20
c)45
d)50
e)90
Ten times ten, yes, so (a). The correct answer is (a). Or is it? Certainly. Don’t get stuck, forge ahead. She could hear the timer ticking in her head. She glanced at her watch: 2:30.
The next question:
Select the number that best completes the following analogy—
10 : 6 : 3 :?
a)2
b)1
c)-l
d)12
e)4
What did those colons mean? Why should she have to know that? She could only guess. She circled (b).
She put her pen down. She was thirsty and hot. She picked up her purse and returned to the receptionist area. A woman Colleen recognized from the last time she was here, one of the placement officers, stood talking to another woman, presumably another client, who wore a grey wool wrap dress and expensive-looking burgundy boots and whose hair was tousled in a professionally styled sort of way. Kev had disappeared.
The placement officer, her hair in a neat bob, wore a white jacket over a grey skirt, which made her look as though she ought to have a stethoscope around her neck. She turned to Colleen.
“Did you need something?”
“I wonder if you could pause the test. I need to use the facilities.”
“Oh, yes. It’s Ms. Kerrigan, isn’t it?”
“How nice you remembered. Yes, Colleen Kerrigan. But I’m sorry …”
“Nancy Fischer.” The woman held out her hand.
Colleen shook it. “Sorry.”
The woman leaned in and chuckled. “You don’t have the benefit of being handed a file. Excellent memory booster. Colleen, this is Diane Harding.”
“Nice to meet you.” Colleen was aware the clock was ticking. “So, would it be all right to pause the timer?”
Nancy Fischer turned to the other woman, who was not much older than the girl who’d been in to claim her cheque. “Hang on just a minute, Diane.” She picked up the timer from Kev’s desk. “Twenty-five minutes or so left. I’ll make a note and start when you come back. It’s down the hall to your left, first door round the corner.”
The Empty Room Page 11
