by Alice Quinn
We picked up our conversation again. Sabrina had a great little idea: we could draw a picture of Princess Sarah when we got back home. We’d keep it until we had time to get back to Tony’s to pick up the real thing.
Emma was happy enough with this idea and we all set off again. At the corner of the street, we saw the same girl. This time, she was leaving a small condo with a little garden out front. She lowered her head and scuttled on ahead of us. I noted that she was now nearly empty handed. And she was springing along more quickly.
So, what was the deal here? She was walking into buildings and coming back out again several minutes later and her plastic bags were disappearing little by little.
She suddenly ran into the courtyard of a group of scruffy apartment blocks and dirty little houses. We followed her. I wanted to take a little peek at what she was up to. It was just pure curiosity, I guess. We got as far as the entrance to the lot.
What in God’s name am I doing? My big mouth usually gets me into enough trouble as it is, so why am I now meddling in other people’s business? People I don’t even know! Normal, sane women don’t act like this, do they?
She made her way toward one of the dirty little houses. It was on its own, down a little alley. The front door looked to be boarded up. We moved in closer. It stunk of pee and rotting vegetables. I was betting it was a ratfest here. I saw a “For Sale” sign attached to one of the broken shutters. It had the number of the real-estate agency on it. She stopped. Luckily she didn’t glance behind her before looking up at the crummy little house.
A man suddenly pushed me aside on his way past us into the alley. I had a quick chance to scan him. He had a hard face and gave me the willies. Even though he had icy-blue eyes, a sensuous mouth, a five o’clock shadow (but the kind he’d clearly intended to happen), and an angled face resembling Jude Law’s . . . Something was off. He looked like the bad version of Jude Law.
He had far too many clothes on for the sticky weather. A gorgeous, presumably expensive white suit, a black shirt, and real stylish leather shoes. He strode over to the young girl, who had her back turned toward us, and as he approached her, he grabbed her arm violently. I thought he was going to attack her, and just as I was about to step in, I heard him speak in a foreign language.
She was examining the ground and didn’t react when he shook her arm. She softly responded to his question. He shoved her by the small of her back and it looked like she was going to trip. She just managed to hop onto the first step in front of the house before making her way up the rest.
Just then, I heard a loud ringing sound. It almost burst my eardrum! A cyclist whizzed past me and waved. It was Antoine. I waved back and he cried out, “Yo! Cricri! How’s it going?”
He’d distracted me from the teenage girl and the mean Jude Law. I turned back toward them as Antoine rode off into the distance.
The girl had reached the top of the steps and was now clambering through the ground-floor window, over a piece of wood that had maybe been used to bolt down the shutters at some stage. There was no point intervening. These two clearly knew each other, and, even though he hadn’t been particularly nice to her, it was their business and had nothing whatsoever to do with me.
Well, at least I know where she’s holed up, I thought, as if this information was actually important. I mean, this girl was a perfect stranger, wasn’t she? But I felt intrigued by her. So what?
We all did a one eighty and strolled back toward the trailer, singing songs along the way—our usual style. About a hundred feet down the road, the guy jumped out from a little side road in front of me. It was the same hot guy. Jude. White-Suit Man. He was blocking the sidewalk, stopping us from getting past him. The kids jumped up and down and let out little screeches!
“Have you lost it?” I hissed. “What’s your problem? Are you mental?”
I shouted the last bit a little too loudly to make up for the fact that he had really gotten me whacked out. I wanted him to think I wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by him. Emma pushed him, Lisa hid behind my legs, and Sabrina got out a ball of string and started unrolling it.
“I’ve got the right of way,” the man insisted—not only in French, but with a perfect French accent.
Right of way? He’s got right of way? Does this imbecile have a screw loose or what? Since when does the highway code apply to sidewalks and pedestrians?
I stared at him straight in the eyes as I said, “Sabrina, put the string away. Twinnos, you both move back now.” And then to the Suit, I said, “You might have the right of way, sure, but I’ve got the green light. Green light wins.”
I was pretty pissed. I must have been—I’d just invented the road version of rock-paper-scissors! I mean, what the hell? When I don’t get something, I become wound up. Maybe that’s why I’m always so antsy.
He stepped toward me, towering above.
If I’d been on my own, I would have kicked him where it hurts, but I don’t want to teach my babies that most problems can, in fact, be solved by violence.
So I stayed where I was, not moving a muscle, for what felt like hours. My daughters could sense the weirdness of it. Lisa pulled at my clothes; her lips were trembling and the tears were only seconds away. Sabrina brandished her nylon string menacingly, and Emma gave the guy what she considered to be her darkest, meanest glower.
Gritting his teeth, he whispered, “If I ever see you around here again, you or your shitty little brats, I’ll wipe all of you out. Got it?”
OK, so he definitely spoke good French.
I didn’t want to show him that he could intimidate me that easily, even though he totally could. This fella was scary. I delicately and slowly held out my hand and made a sweeping gesture, telling him to shoo out of my way, and I darted forward. Miracle of miracles, he moved.
But his piercing blue eyes continued to glare, and I felt them burning a hole in my back for a long time as we marched off. When I finally had the courage to turn around and inspect the scene, he’d disappeared.
We continued along our merry way without any further dramas. I tried to get my head around what had just happened. But then, little by little, our misadventure disappeared from my thoughts as I started to make plans on my planet.
“OK, so with the job at Véro’s boss’s house, I’ll make about three hundred. Plus my welfare check and my work at Tony’s, I’ll be able to pay my tab easily. Coolio! We’re rolling in it!”
“Mommy, are you talking to yourthelf?” asked Sabrina, which made the twins suddenly very interested in what was going on.
They stared at me insistently, trying to figure out what I’d been yammering on about.
I was saved by Pastis, who came skipping up to meet us all. He looked like a simple alley cat, but he really did have the IQ of Einstein. He was a little screwy, and not your typical cat at all. You’d almost say he had the personality of a dog. For example, he often came out to meet us as we made our way home. Probably because he was hungry, but even so.
He rubbed against my ankles. “Ah! There you are, Pastis! Don’t exaggerate! You’re not exactly starving!”
He meowed slowly, peeking up at me with his big pussycat eyes.
“Mommy,” complained Sabrina, “Pathtith alwayth lookth at you like he lovth you tho much.”
“That’s kind to say, but I’m sure it’s just that whenever he sees me, it’s like seeing a big bowl of kitty treats on legs.”
As soon as we stepped inside, I asked the kiddies to get their backpacks all ready for the next school day. Yes, I know, not the most fun activity (especially for the twins, who needed virtually nothing at school), but I wanted to take their minds off things.
But it was like they’d already forgotten everything that had happened on the way home. For them, everything we’d just seen with the teenage girl and the big baddie was no biggie. It was as if they’d simply watched a scene in a cartoon.
“Mommy, let’th do a muthical!” cried Sabrina.
“No, we’ll do a show,” replied Em
ma.
“A show, a muthical, a play . . . they’re all wordth for the thame thing,” Sabrina explained, shrugging.
They disappeared into one of the little bedrooms with the radio.
When Pastis noticed I was messing around with the gas stove, he bounced up onto my shoulders. He wrapped himself around my neck, clearly deciding I wasn’t warm enough and needed a scarf. He stayed up there and watched as I prepared something to eat for everyone. Hardly practical.
He’s a pretty gifted cat. It must be quite some feat to stay balanced on someone’s shoulders while they’re moving, throwing you around the place like a sack of grain.
I cut up the onion and started to brown it in the pan. I opened the can of tomatoes and set the water to boil for the spaghetti. The onion made my eyes all red and itchy.
Criiiiiii. Criiiiiii. My cricket phone.
I screamed out, “Quick! Hurry! Someone! Phone!”
The kids came running into the room, and Emma managed to locate the phone before it stopped ringing. She passed it to Sabrina, who opened it and held it up to my ear as I continued to cook. This is how we do things.
It was Gaston.
Gaston is like the father I never had, a gallant knight ready to serve my every whim, and my very best friend. All in all, he is someone I can count on day and night. I should also add that he is absolutely rolling in it. He is a poet, lives in an enchanted castle that’s half in ruins but reminds me of something out of a fairy tale, and drives an old Jag. It’s true that Gaston can get me out of the shit I’m in most of the time at just the click of my fingers, but nothing is as valuable to me as my independence. I’d rather eat old dry bread than have to count on someone else for something. For anything. I know, it’s perhaps not the wisest move on my part, but there’s no getting away from it. I am what I am. The result of a long line of women. Not always the sharpest of women, but women who’ve always managed to get by with what (little) they’ve had.
That particular day, Gaston had called to ask for a favor. Every now and again, he liked to meet up with us, break away from his routine, and get a hit of adrenaline from me and my rug-ratties. Taking care of the munchkins awhile was just like an action movie for him.
“I’m bored half to death, my Cricri! You don’t need me to run you anywhere tomorrow by any chance, do you? If so, my services are available!”
“Heck, why not? I’m starting a new job in the morning. Around ten. You can drive me there, if you like! It’s up on the coast.”
“OK. I can come a little earlier and drop the kids off at school. You’ll have your own chauffeur for the day! It’ll be some time out for me. Wonderful!”
“Works for me!”
“Also, I’ve got a really great idea I’d like to run by you. It concerns you, as a matter of fact. See you tomorrow.”
I didn’t even have time to say good-bye before he hung up.
How did his idea concern me? What was it all about this time? He was always planning some scheme or other that involved me. Gaston liked to go on and on about how my multiple talents were wasted (“multiple talents” were his words, not mine, for the record). He wanted me to learn English, to take my driver’s-license test . . . There was always something I should be doing. He should have known by now that I was allergic to learning. I’d repeated tenth grade four times (as far as I can remember) before I’d finally been kicked out.
“That smells yummy, Mommy,” said Lisa.
“Why are you crying?” asked Emma.
“Oh, I’m not crying! It’s the onions.”
They were amused by this. They headed off to one of their minibedrooms with some onion peelings. They were taking big long sniffs of them, trying to make themselves cry. I don’t know why, but they must have been immune to onions. It didn’t work with them at all.
While everything was simmering on the stove, I served myself a small glass of port left over from some party or other. God only knows how long ago. There was only a tiny bit left in the bottle. Pastis, still managing to keep his balance, wobbled dangerously. I thought about the guy who’d threatened us earlier. I was really concerned about the girl. Did she live with him?
“Pastis, try to keep still, would you? Stop bobbing around!”
He replied with a moody meow.
We all sat around the table and wolfed down our spaghetti. The children helped me clean up afterward. We finished later than usual because of all the shenanigans on our way back home. We went through the getting-ready-for-bed ceremony, which included giving Sabrina a quick shower so that we could save some time in the morning.
I put Lisa to bed, and Sabrina helped Emma draw a picture of Princess Sarah dressed as Superman. They put the drawing under Emma’s pillow.
After all the pots had been put away and all the clothes folded, I checked that the kiddies had done a good job with their backpacks and then settled down on my bed with a Rachel Amar book and . . . I dropped off.
Pastis settled down on my belly and his purring lulled me deeper into slumber.
And boy, did I sleep that night. I slept like a dead dog and didn’t move a muscle until the next morning.
Tuesday: New Encounters
6
I woke up with a terrible feeling of being suffocated. Pastis was a heavy little kitty, and when he pressed down on my stomach, like he was doing just then, the sensation of not being able to breathe properly was terrifying.
I jumped. I was sweating like a little piggy. I had Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” running through my head, but I changed the words: I’m cuckoo! Nutso for feeling so lonely! I’m bonkers! Loony for feeling so blue!
How old was that song? Surely not my mother’s era. Was she using my grandmother’s repertoire now? I was feeling a little pissed at her. Couldn’t she put a nice modern song in my head? What about that “Does that make me crazy?” song by Gnarley someone-or-other. That was a little more up my alley.
I squinted at the alarm clock. Oh God! It hadn’t gone off! We were over a half hour late. And the twins were such slowpokes these days. We were never going to be on time.
I scurried into Emma and Lisa’s room, pulled them out of bed, and threw them under the shower as quickly as I could. The showerhead made some noises. A sqquuuiiirrrrt and a schluurrrrrpppp and a pliiiiippp, driiiippp, drooooppp. About three droplets of dirty water came out, and then it just gave up the ghost.
In the meantime, Sabrina had managed to get dressed all by herself. I ran with the little ones halfway up a nearby street to the public fountain. It was a stunning little structure done in the style of some old king or something. It was a natural source of water, and I had no shame washing my baby girls in it—needs must be met and all that.
I could tell that everyone around me was staring, but there were only a few locals around. The tourists weren’t up and about yet. That was something, at least.
The water was cool and clear, and the girls loved it! They splashed around happily and washed themselves, and then we all ran back to the trailer as quick as our legs would carry us. I’d taken two empty bottles and filled them with water, just in case we still had problems later on in the day.
I would have to find a way of dealing with the water issue at some point.
I toweled off the little ones, dressed them, and turned the radio on so I could listen to the news as I got some breakfast going. I had to throw some odds and ends together, whatever I could find. There was a little bread left over from the day before and some milk.
On the radio I heard the words “Full Moon Pyromaniac.”
Full Moon Pyromaniac? They were talking about a guy who liked setting fires to libraries and shit. I already knew what a pyromaniac was. I’d read it somewhere. I liked stuff like that. And this one was a specialist in library fires! Good kindling, I supposed. What a weirdo. He’d be no friend of mine, that was for sure.
Libraries are my favorite. I go to the library when I want to chillax or when I feel the blues coming on. The comic-book aisle is where it’s at for
me.
We just happen to have the world’s most beautiful library right in our neighborhood. It’s an old villa up on the hill. In fact, it looks like a palace. It was built by the Rothschild family! So you can imagine just how la-di-da it is! And now we, the underclass, are allowed to go inside whenever we feel like it! We can use the grounds too! We can stroll around, dream, meander . . . Like goddamn royalty, I tell you.
Anyway, this berserko fire-starter guy had been arrested and his trial was beginning. So far, he hadn’t breathed a word. He was one of those “silent as the grave” types. Taking the Fifth, they call it over in the States. He was refusing to speak or communicate, which only ever turned out badly in the movies.
Imagine wanting to set fire to such a beautiful, heavenly building. I just didn’t get it. I wanted to know what made this guy tick. Maybe I’d find the answer in one of my psychology books. I was sure there was some sort of rational or scientific explanation for such behavior. The idea reassured me as I got everything ready for the school run.
Everyone brushed their teeth and all that jazz using some of the bottled water from the fountain, and then off we scampered. I was praying with every spare bit of energy that Gaston would turn up in his magic Jag taxi machine, but his alarm clock must have been busted up too. He was running later than me.
It wasn’t like him not to keep his word, but seeing as he didn’t have any family obligations, he wasn’t used to getting up at the crack of dawn to see to a big pile of tiddlywinks off to school. And this particular pile of kids had to be in front of the school gates by 8:31 a.m. The school principal is a fascist. He locks the gate at 8:32 a.m. No excuses. He’s more than that: he’s a sadist. Even if you’re right there while the teaching-assistant girl (or whatever she is) is turning the key, she won’t open up. She’s not allowed. He said so. That school is a hellhole.
It’s the only school around here, though, so we can’t say or do much about it. Don’t be tardy. Rule number one.
Anyway, time was of the essence and I couldn’t be worrying about school policies. I knew we had to get our asses into gear.
