Wilma goes for the cappuccino. I want to tell her about corn syrup and corn starch and corn oil, how it’s put into every prepared food going and that if she wants her kids obese, keep dining at the food court. I want to tell her it’s not worth being Fred’s semen receptacle. But I don’t say anything because Fred might hurt me. In Jane Eyre when Helen Burns is dying, she says she’s happy because death will end her suffering. She says if she grows older she’ll keep making a mess of things and getting into trouble and making people miserable. Dead, she won’t have to worry about keeping her drawers tidy or paying attention during lessons. When you think about all the effort that’s required to not make a mess of things and get into trouble, and make people miserable, and keep your drawers tidy and pay attention during lessons, dying of consumption starts to look like a reasonable alternative. Helen says it’s painless, except for the cough.
The Flintstones want different flavours and double scoops. I dig around in the various tubs.
The worst part is knowing those goons have seen my snatch. I told Ross I’d corroborate her story that we got wet in a sprinkler, which is why she was wearing my clothes. I can just see poor old Mrs. Barnfield saying, ‘A sprinkler? That must’ve been fun. You two used to love running in sprinklers. How was your date, angel?’
Doyle’s hardly speaking to me. He can’t feel too swell about his date dumping him to get raped. He asked if Rossi was alright and I said of course she wasn’t. He’s hiding in the back, doesn’t even come out to harass me about the scoops. Yang Yang, the Chinese girl who has to stand on a footstool, has been accepted to a thousand universities. She’s spread their catalogues all over the counter, pages of happy happy students with big futures. She’s so busy looking at the catalogues she has no time to wipe things down or rinse the scoops.
I give Mr. Flintstone the wrong change, which is highly unusual for me. He gets uppity and starts bellowing that I owe him eighty-nine cents. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, feeling my hands shake, which they never do.
Some kid is circling a table not far from us, gripping two toy cars. I can’t see anyone with her, which worries me. I try to smile warmly at her but she looks away and says, ‘Fuck you,’ to one of her cars. The other car says, ‘Fuck you,’ back. The girl’s head is big compared to the rest of her and I deduce that she’s a midget. I’d been prepared to forgive this girl for her foul language, put it down to upbringing and all that. But the fact that she’s a midget and is going to get freakier and uglier – and probably meaner – because of all the kicking around she’s going to have to endure, makes it hard for me to care about her. Even though she could wander into the parking lot on her stumpy legs with her fucking cars and get run over. Maybe her mother is hoping for such a miracle. I scan the mall for an adult midget but it’s the usual suspects. The paraplegic is feeding his parrot frozen yogourt with a stir stick. I really want to care about what happens to this poor, stunted child, but the truth is, she scares me. I can’t take my eyes off her, though. My Greek plumber shows up and asks for Cookies ’n’ Cream then starts yammering about some Roto-Rooting he has to do. Even he scares me, the dirt under his fingernails, the hair growing out of his nostrils. The midget hauls herself up onto a chair and starts smashing her cars together. Even the paraplegic and the parrot start staring at her. I’m convinced this kid’s been abandoned and no one’s going to go near her because she’s so hideous. I tell myself, if no one comes for her in an hour, I’ll call the police. But then two officers suddenly appear. ‘Is Doyle Gregg here?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lie.
‘He’s in the back,’ Yang Yang blurts.
The cops flip the counter and stride around to the back. I try to hear what’s going on but it’s hard with all the freezer noise and Muzak. The one with the moustache says something about allegations of assault. When I hear Jake and Larry Bone’s names I scoot back there pretending to look for napkins. I try to make eye contact with Doyle to give him the opportunity to say, ‘She was there, she’ll tell you what really happened,’ but he doesn’t look at me. The cop with the ’stache grumbles, ‘Would you mind doing that later, miss?’
‘Oh,’ I mutter, ‘certainly.’ As I head to the front I hear Doyle say, ‘I want to talk to my lawyer,’ like a suspect on tv. His dad’s a dentist, he must know a lawyer. The Greek plumber yabbers about how he had to snake somebody’s toilet because their son flushed the limbs of his sister’s Barbies down it. The nervous woman in the hat creeps up and asks for a smoothie. I prod Yang Yang. ‘Can you make it for her?’ I’m about to go back and explain to the two fascists what really happened when out they pop with Doyle in handcuffs. He’s taller then both of them. He stares hard at me and I can tell he wants me to zip it.
‘He’s the manager,’ I say. ‘You can’t take him away.’
‘Close early,’ the cop with the ’stache orders.
‘The keys are back there,’ Doyle tells me. ‘You know what to do. Don’t close till closing time.’ He’s never shown this kind of confidence in me before and suddenly I’m so scared I want to grab his leg and hang on. ‘Tell Mr. Buzny I’m sick,’ he says and then they’re gone. YangYang doesn’t look too impressed. ‘Is he dealing drugs?’
‘No. They’ve made a mistake.’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘I fell down.’
‘Is everything alright?’ the nervous woman in the hat asks. ‘Bitchin’,’ I say and start making her smoothie. It’s when I’m tossing in the strawberries that I notice the midget is gone.
21
They’re sitting around eating slop Vaughn’s cooked up. I head upstairs.
‘Not so fast,’ Drew says.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘The police phoned. They want you to call them. Detective Sergeant Weech.’ She waves a slip of paper. ‘His badge number’s on there as well.’
I try to look surprised, do some glob-globbing and furrow my brow. ‘Why’s he calling me?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me that. He wouldn’t discuss it with me. You’re sixteen, he doesn’t have to.’ She leans against the counter with her arms folded in principal mode, which is pretty hilarious considering she’s in Damian’s old pjs. Vaughn digs around in the slop with his chopsticks. Drew sighs, looks away, then back at me again. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened to your face?’
‘I fell down.’
‘Where?’
‘Right here, actually, the floor’s pretty greasy, could use a scrub.’
‘You’re lying to me. Why are you lying to me?’
‘I’m not lying.’ I watch Treeboy sucking up noodles and try to figure out if he’s told her anything.
‘Have you been doing drugs?’ Drew asks.
‘Negative.’
‘Did someone hit you?’
‘Negative.’
She throws her hands up. Characters in novels throw their hands up but I’ve never seen it in real life. She does it a couple of times, when she isn’t gripping her head like it’s about to explode. She sits down again and assumes an air of professional calm. ‘I don’t understand why you’re lying to me. Who are you protecting?’
‘Nobody. Maybe there was a robbery at the mall and they’re hoping I saw something. Or maybe the midget got kidnapped. There was this midget child hanging around and nobody looking after her. She vanished. Maybe they’re holding her ransom. Kidnapping’s all the rage these days. Maybe she’s in the trunk of a car somewhere.’
Drew starts smoothing out the tablecloth. When she’s feeling heated, she smooths. ‘I can only help you if you let me. I’m not your mother. You owe me nothing.’ I have to admit, it’s nice to hear her talking half-normally again, even if she is pissed at me and in Damian’s old pjs. ‘Detective Sergeant Weech said he would come to the house if you don’t call him.’
‘I’ll call him.’
‘When?’
‘After I grab a bite. Do we have any pickles?’ Maybe if I delay, Weech will head home for Sunday dinner.
‘You just said you weren’t hungry,’ Drew says. ‘If you don’t call him, I’m going to have to phone Damian.’
‘I’ll call him.’
‘Who?’
‘Weech.’
‘Want some stir-fry?’ Vaughn offers.
‘Why not.’
So we sit, the three of us, silent over slop. But old Drew can’t help herself. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Here.’
‘No you weren’t. I checked your room and you weren’t in it.’
‘Oh, you mean later? I slept downstairs.’
‘You weren’t downstairs.’
‘In the basement.’
‘Why did you sleep in the basement?’
‘Ross was with me. We were at a party and she wanted to sleep over.’
‘Since when do you go to parties?’
‘Since yesterday.’
Vaughn dishes out more slop but I hold my hand over my plate. ‘I’m wasted,’ I say, ‘could use an early night.’
‘Please phone the sergeant,’ she says, sounding like she might pass out.
I take the slip of paper. ‘No worries.’ I hoof it upstairs and run the bath to drown out my call. I get Weech’s voice mail. It sounds like he doesn’t give a goose’s turd if you leave a message or not. I act bewildered in my message. The truth is I don’t want to talk to the police until I talk to Doyle. I phone him but there’s only his dentist dad on the service who’s probably down at the station trying to buy his way out of it like those parents who try to buy private rooms on the cancer floor. I serve milkshakes to cops, they don’t like rich people, they call them dicks. I phone Rossi. Mrs. Barnfield answers and says Rossi isn’t feeling well.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, dear. I thought it might be food poisoning. What did you girls eat at the party last night?’
‘The usual. Tacos and stuff. Pizza.’
‘Oh, well, that could be it then. You never know how long those things have been sitting around.’
I can tell she’s worried out of her mind, and that Rossi has told her nothing.
‘Will you let her know I called?’ I ask.
‘Will do.’
I feel safer in the bathroom but the mirror is inescapable and, I have to admit, the bruising’s nasty. I could pretend I’m sick or something and skip school tomorrow. Except then I’ll be home for Weech’s call. Purple marks are starting to blossom on my thighs as well, even my breasts. It could be worse. I could be Rossi.
‘What’s this?’ Drew’s holding the Ziploc bag containing Doyle’s presumably semen-stained T-shirt. Drew doesn’t usually barge into my room.
‘It’s a project for Conkwright. Just leave it alone.’
‘What sort of project?’
‘A chemistry project. We’re freezing enzymes in different mediums.’
She knows nothing about science, did her PhD on some dead poet nobody’s ever heard of.
I grab the bag from her. ‘It’s not supposed to thaw. If it thaws, you’ll destroy it.’
She looks a little frightened and for a second I feel shitty about lying to her, but then I think it through – knowing the truth would only make her more paranoid. She wouldn’t even go out to bark at the cats.
I jam the T-shirt back into the freezer and scurry to my room. I boot up the computer to check for party gossip about Rossi that might provide evidence. Nobody actually uses the rape word. They use every derogatory word known to man to describe the skank’s and the dyke’s – that would be me – body parts, but our names are never mentioned.
Somebody knocks softly on my door and I know it’s Treeboy.
‘Yeah?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Why wouldn’t you have a choice?’
‘Two against one.’
‘Drew’s downstairs.’
‘Here in spirit.’
‘I’ll go then.’
‘No, it’s alright, what’s up?’
He sits on the bed and stares at me. ‘How badly are you hurt?’
‘Not badly.’
‘Loggers once beat the crap out of me,’ he says. ‘I thought they were going to kill me. Later, I thought wow, is that all they can do? I’d been so afraid for so long of what those pricks would do to me. I stopped being afraid after that.’
‘Your friend wasn’t so lucky.’
‘He was afraid and they knew it. You can’t show your fear. Ever.’
I pretend I’m shopping on eBay, wait for him to get bored and leave. He’s sitting so still it’s creepy.
‘I took Drew out today,’ he says.
‘You mean outside?’
He nods. ‘We went to the corner to get milk.’
I stare at him to make sure he isn’t lying. ‘Did she almost bolt or anything?’
‘A couple of times. Sudden movements get her going.’
‘Did she hold on to you?’
‘Of course.’
It hurts that she went out with him, held on to him, and not me. ‘That’s great,’ I say. My alarm clock with the really loud tick ticks away. I shove it under a pile of clothes.
‘You going to school tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘Perhaps.’
‘You should.’ He stares, I surf. Finally he gets up. ‘Good night,’ he says.
‘Toodles.’
He closes the door gently and all I want is to be with Kadylak, just like Jane was with Helen Burns. I want to crawl into her bed and feel safe.
Nobody and I mean nobody talks to me. I sit in the can and read with my feet propped against the door so I’m invisible. Clarissa’s on her deathbed in her dank prison with a priest hovering. Old Lovelace refuses to see the error of his ways and leave Clarissa in peace. His former pal, Jack, skewers him in a fit of passion. Meanwhile Clarissa draws her last breath, happy in her delusion that she’s on the next plane to the Pearly Gates. Posthumously her parents figure out that they should have forgiven her and booted out her evil brother and sister. You have to wonder what old Samuel wanted us to get out of this ending. A conviction that we should be good even if it kills us? A conviction that we should be bad even if it kills us? Maybe his point is there is no point in conviction. One way or the other it’s going to kill you.
I try to nab Doyle after Conkwright’s class but it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t want to be associated with me. Victims of sexual assault don’t win popularity contests. People feel sorry for them but that’s about it. Plus he’s seen my snatch with a beer bottle sticking out of it, which might be a bit of a turnoff. Rossi doesn’t show up, which is no surprise, and Tora’s made herself scarce, probably having an asthma attack or something. When the going gets tough, Tora starts hacking.
I seek refuge in the library where Mrs. Wartowski is comfortably clueless. She thinks it’s time I read Lady Chat-terley’s Lover. I tell her I already read it, went through this intense D. H. Lawrence phase reading about women who needed to come down off their class system and screw labourers. You get the feeling D.H. thought everything was pretty rotten back then. Industrialization pissed him off, and democracy, which wasn’t really democracy. He was a Jew-hater, which doesn’t win him points, but I guess everybody was kicking around Jews in those days. He took off, travelled, wrote about women getting the big one from gypsies or Mexicans. It’s pretty hilarious that this skinny runt with bad lungs was writing about all these virile, swarthy types. Anyway, there he was in the twenties, coughing up blood, despairing about the state of the world and hiding out in Italy. If you think about it, those sickly types like D.H., Orwell, Chekhov had to die young or they’d have gone nuts. Because the world wasn’t going to slow down for them, the ‘progress’ they disdained wasn’t going to stop. That’s another bonus for dying young, you don’t have to watch more shit going down.
‘How are you making out with Tilly?’ Mrs. Wartowski asks.
‘Great. I’m reading it to a friend of mine. She’s really en
joying it. It’s got a happy ending, right?’
‘Cookson always wrote happy endings.’
Mrs. Wartowski’s parents were killed by Polish Jew-haters after the war was over and they came out of hiding. The Jew-haters nabbed them, wired them together, shot her father in the head and tossed them in a river. They didn’t shoot her mother because they didn’t want to waste the bullet. Mrs. Wartowski’s mother drowned wired to her husband’s corpse. Mrs. Wartowski told me this after she saw me reading a memoir by an American whose Hungarian father turned out to be a war criminal, one of those types who raped and ripped out gold teeth and wired Jews together and shoved them in the Danube. ‘You never know what people are capable of,’ Mrs. Wartowski said. The people who killed her parents were neighbours and would have killed her except that she was a newborn and they wanted a baby. They raised her like their own. She only found out the truth after they were dead. So she spent her life loving her parents’ murderers. Anyway, what’s weird is that Mrs. Wartowski is a really nice person, even when people make fun of her accent and her pumpernickel-and-onion sandwiches. You have to wonder how somebody whose parents got thrown in a river can be so nice and fearless. The guy who wrote the memoir became depressed when he found out his father was a war criminal and started hating everybody, especially his padre. He said everybody looked like a liar to him.
‘What happened to your face?’ Mrs. Wartowski asks me.
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