by Elka Ray
“I do,” I mumble. It’s hard to breathe with my nose squashed against Quinn’s shoulder. “I just haven’t met the right guy yet.”
She releases me and leans back. There’s something motherly about her expression, at once indulgent and stern. “Maybe you have,” she says flatly.
I think of Josh, and the feeling I get when he looks at me—hope mixed with hopelessness, the percentages forever shifting. I think of my dad and his new family, the two stepbrothers I’ve only met a few times, and how, after they arrived, my dad stopped making any pretense of maintaining contact with me.
In one of the boats, Bob Marley’s now singing about freedom. None of them can stop the time. I look toward Mount Baker. Some of the mist has burned away, the mountain appearing so close, and so perfect, that it takes my breath away. If only I could see the future so clearly.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
DIRTY LAUNDRY
The majority of the tenants in my building are senior citizens, mostly widows. The guy across from me, Mr. Garlowski, is one of the building’s few widowers, his wife, Martha, having suffered a brain aneurysm thirteen years ago, shortly after their youngest son announced his plans to drop out of med school and sit in a tree for two years to raise awareness about the plight of the marbled murrelet.
Mr. Garlowski told me about Martha’s demise when we first met in the building’s communal laundry room. The first few years were hard, he’d said, but he’s gotten used to being single again. Then he’d leered at my ass and winked at me.
Despite being short, bald, and scrawny, around here, Mr. Garlowski’s a hot commodity. So hot, in fact, that every other time I pass his door I can hear a different woman’s voice in there. Sometimes I peek out of my little peephole and see them loitering in the hall, clutching casseroles or trays of cookies and fixing their hair one last time.
All this female attention has gone to Mr. Garlowski’s liver-spotted head, because he’s convinced he has a chance with me— despite being forty years older and a few centimeters shorter than me.
I think he watches my front door, because whenever I go to do laundry, he shows up. I’m separating my colors when he hobbles into the room, his laundry basket full of plaid garments. Everything the man wears is checkered. Year-round, he favors brushed flannel.
As usual, Mr. Garlowski feigns surprise upon seeing me, doing a comic double take and pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hey Doll!” he says, my name being alternately Doll or Sugar. Sometimes he calls me China Doll, which I especially hate. By comparison, Doll is almost acceptable.
I say hello and keep sorting.
“I thought you’d be out on a hot date,” says Mr. Garlowski. “It being Friday night and all.”
I ignore this comment. Mr. Garlowski starts patting at various plaid pockets in search of quarters. Finally, as expected, he asks if I have change for five dollars. As usual, I do, and as usual, I resent giving it to him. Why am I organized enough to get change in advance when I’m working full-time, whereas Mr. Garlowski can’t get it together despite being at home all day long?
Not that he’s at home much. What with lawn bowling, golf, tennis, and going to the Oak Bay Seniors’ Center, he’s a busy man. Plus he’s out constantly with his string of lady friends.
“Perfect night like this, I figured you’d be out with your man,” says Mr. Garlowski. He stares up at the laundry room’s only window, which, given that we’re in the basement, barely counts as one, as though he were gazing through the gates of Paradise.
Through this cell-like opening I can see the base of a rhododendron bush, visible despite the late hour because a floodlight is shining on it. “Stars out, soft breeze, perfect night for a drive . . .” He tugs at his pants’ elastic waistband. “Ah, if only I were young again.”
He dumps his entire load into a machine and tosses in some detergent. It’s all I can do to stop myself from saying something. How has he lived so long without learning how to do laundry? No wonder his clothes look like they do.
He nods toward my laundry piles. “Ya know, Sugar, in all my years I’ve never met anyone as careful about separating colors as you.”
I toss a light blue sock into my pale colors pile and shrug. “How so?” I ask.
“Light and dark I get. And colors too. Martha did those separately. But you, you got white and black plus light, bright, and dark colors.” He nods toward my various piles. “That’s five categories.” He scratches his bald head. “I can see why you’d make one hell of a lawyer.”
“I hate it when colors run,” I say. Since the laundry room’s walls are bare cement there’s an echo in here and my voice comes out sounding weird and prissy.
“Uh huh,” says Mr. Garlowski. He shoves his hands into his plaid pants and looks me up and down. Something about his expression, combined with Quinn’s recent assertion that I’m a control freak, leaves me wanting to throw something at him. A dirty sock, maybe. Definitely nothing sexy or he might take it the wrong way.
“Take it easy, Doll,” he says, heading for the exit. In the doorway, he stops. “Oh, I forgot. You had a visitor, Sugar.”
“A visitor?” I parrot. I’m holding a mauve nightie that’s a bit too purple for the light pile, but too pale for the brights.
“A young man,” he says. “He stopped by this afternoon. When you were out.”
“Oh,” I say. Naturally, my first thought is Josh, quickly followed by Colin Destin. The Japanese takeout I had for dinner shifts in my belly. Josh or Colin? I imagine them both standing outside my door, waiting.
A bell dings. I tell myself to get a grip. There’s a high chance it was neither of them. My idea of young might not match Mr. Garlowski’s. “What did he look like?” I ask.
Mr. Garlowski fingers a loose button on his shirt. I bet that by tomorrow, some lady will have offered to fix it. “Tall, blond, not bad looking,” he says.
Josh? Fighting back a smile, I take a chance and toss my nightie into the bright pile. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“No idea,” says Mr. Garlowski. “But he slipped a note under your door. You didn’t see it?”
“Uh, no,” I say. “But thanks for telling me.” It occurs to me that Mr. Garlowski might be pulling my leg. Maybe, like everyone else in town, he’s aware of my crush on Josh. Maybe he thinks it’s fun to torture me. I grit my teeth and chastise myself. Paranoid much?
Mr. Garlowski is still hanging around in the doorway. When I look up at him, he gives me a sly smile. “So, is he your boyfriend?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly. “Just someone from work.” The last thing I need is to fertilize the building’s gossip vine.
“Right,” says Mr. Garlowski. He gives me a big wink. “Whatever you say, Sugar.” He cocks his head. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Doll, but the guy looked like a bit of a player.” He taps the bag beneath his left eye. “I know. I got the eye, Sugar.”
“Takes one to know one,” I say, and Mr. Garlowski laughs. I grit my teeth. That slipped out. I wonder if I ought to apologize.
Above us, someone is walking around. Whoever it is is obviously wearing clogs, or some type of heavy orthopedic shoes. I say a little prayer of thanks that my unit is on the top floor. The reason my apartment was available, and a great deal, is that this building has no elevator and most residents can’t reach the fourth floor.
Mr. Garlowski taps a plaid slipper against the floor. “You know, life is short,” he says. “You gotta have fun, Sugar.”
I expect that to be the end of it, but Mr. Garlowski hesitates. Beneath his square glasses, his eyes are solemn. “I wish Martha were still here,” he says. “I really do. But she’s not, so I gotta be grateful for the years we had and make the most of what I’ve got now.” He gives his pants’ elastic waistband another tug.
I see a flash of checkered boxers and raise my eyes, fast. Mr. Garlowski meets them. “You know what I’m saying, Doll?”
“Yes,” I say. Talking about Martha he looked so wistfu
l that I almost liked the man.
“You got your whole life ahead of you,” he says. “So get out and enjoy it. You hear me?”
All of a sudden, I fear I might cry. Instead, I focus on measuring out the correct amount of detergent, and wish Mr. Garlowski a good night.
“Sweet dreams, Sugar,” he says. And then he gives my ass a onceover and winks at me.
After he’s gone, I’m tempted to chuck everything into one machine and race upstairs and find the note. But I don’t, because that would reveal a lack of willpower. Plus, if it’s not from Josh, or really dull, I’ll feel even more stupid for having rushed up there.
When my five loads are in the machines I head back upstairs.
Just like Mr. Garlowski said, there’s a folded note in my tiny front hall, bearing my name in slightly messy male handwriting.
I pick it up and open it.
Dear Toby,
I’ve been trying to call but your phone is off. So I stopped by.
A quick check of my phone reveals that it powered down, the battery down to zero. I set down my empty hamper and carry the note into my bedroom, where I keep my phone-charger.
Are you free for brunch on Sunday? We could go out on the boat around 10:00 a.m. and have a picnic on my favorite deserted island— smoked salmon, strawberries, and champagne.
Let me know! I hope you can make it.
Call me!
Josh
I plug in my cell phone and sit on my bed. Josh Barton is asking me on a date. A warm feeling spreads through my chest. I study the painting on the wall across from me, a watercolor of two little girls, rock-pooling. One of the girls has dark hair, and the other is fair. The dark-haired one holds a red bucket. The painting was a gift from my mom a couple of Christmases ago. She said it reminded her of Quinn and me.
I reread the note. A date with Josh Barton. A picnic. Smoked salmon and champagne. I feel like hugging a pillow or jumping up and down. One of the most desirable men I’ve ever met is asking me out. I imagine the two of us clinking glasses and gazing into each other’s eyes. I feel exultant. Then I remember that Quinn’s baby shower is Sunday at 4:00 p.m. Can I go out with Josh and make it back in time?
My phone beeps. It’s my eight o’clock alarm, reminding me to feed my fish. Still holding Josh’s note, I walk into my living room. When I moved here, my mom bought me a fish tank, for lucky feng shui. There are currently eight goldfish in residence. I started out with twelve. Don’t tell Ivy.
Watching my fish, I wonder if I’ve turned Sunday’s lunch date into something it isn’t. Maybe Josh wants to discuss the case. Or maybe he sees me as a friendly ear. His intentions might not be romantic.
My elation soon morphs to worry. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I don’t want to get my hopes up. I consider texting Josh to say sorry, I have other plans. I could just relax and do regular Sunday chores, like cleaning the fish tank and reorganizing my junk drawer. I should exercise too, and wrap Quinn’s shower gift. Plus I have a ton of ironing to get through.
But then I think of Mr. Garlowski, and his advice to live a little.
I imagine calling Josh to say sure, I’d love to go boating with him. I’d sound relaxed and he’d sound relieved. “I can’t wait to see you,” he’d say.
I’m so wrapped up in this fantasy that I drop the fish food. The jar rolls under the couch and little pellets scatter. I curse, then get down on all fours to retrieve the jar.
By the time I’ve swept up the mess, I’ve decided to text rather than call. It’s just easier.
Sunday brunch sounds fun! Quinn’s baby shower is at 4:00 p.m. Can I get back in time? What can I bring?
I spend an anxious five minutes before he texts me back with instructions. He’s moved out of his rental and back into his palace in Uplands. It’s got a private dock, where the boat is moored. The fantasies rev up again.
I’m so distracted that I forget about my laundry. It’s past ten by the time I remember and run downstairs. All the machines have stopped running, the laundry room dead quiet. I transfer everything into the dryers and insert more coins, then stop. Where’s my pink bra? I recheck the machines and bend to search the floor. My one and only piece of sexy underwear has vanished!
My first thought is Mr. Garlowski. But would he really steal women’s underwear? He’s chauvinistic, but I doubt he’s that twisted. None of the building’s few other male tenants strike me as the type either. Was it one of the women? I picture some elderly floozy in my hot pink bra. It seems unlikely.
Long after my clothes are dry, it’s still annoying me. What happened to my pink bra? What’s the world coming to if my delicates aren’t safe in a seniors’ building in Oak Bay, a suburb so sedate, orderly, and refined I can’t think of a single house with an overgrown yard? Most residents probably think “graffiti” is a type of Italian flat bread. Missing cats make the local news.
I was planning to spend tomorrow at my mom’s. But maybe I should go downtown and buy another pretty bra to wear on my date with Josh. But no! I’m getting carried away. My underwear will be well hidden beneath layers of warm clothes. This might not even be a date. I don’t need sexy undies.
After getting into my pajamas I call Quinn and tell her about my missing bra.
“Someone must have picked it up by accident,” she says. “Some of your neighbors can’t see so well.” I can hear her drinking something, probably milk, since she’s trying to consume lots of calcium. She swallows. “What did it look like, anyway?”
“It was pink,” I say. “And kind of lacy.”
“Lacy pink?” asks Quinn. “Since when did you start wearing any gonch that’s not beige?” She laughs. “And lacy? What else are you not telling me?”
“Nothing,” I say. “It was on sale.”
“Uh huh,” says Quinn. She sounds suspicious. I wait and sure enough, a second later, she asks what I’m doing this weekend. Don’t ask me why, but I can’t keep anything from Quinn. Lying’s not possible. Even over the phone she’d be onto me.
“I’ll go see my mom,” I say.
“Nice. What else?”
This is the moment of truth. I fiddle with the phone cord. I could tell her I have no plans except for her shower. But I’d better not risk it. “I’m having brunch with Josh,” I say. “On his boat. A picnic.” I fluff my pillow, waiting for Quinn’s response. “A date?” she asks. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”
“It’s not a date,” I say. “He’s still my client. Well, technically he’s Jackie’s client. But I’m working for Jackie . . .” I stop talking.
“Right,” says Quinn, her tone making it clear she’s not buying any of this. “Is it just you and him?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. I hope so. But maybe it’s a group excursion. I hope Mike won’t be there, or Chantelle. That’d sure kill the mood. I wait for Quinn to repeat her warnings about Josh. I didn’t tell her that Mr. Garlowski had pegged him as a “player.”
“Right,” she says again, her disapproval filling the line, like static. “Okay, well sleep tight. And see you at the shower, right?”
“Of course,” I say. “But that’s it?” I can’t believe she has no further comments about my outing with Josh Barton.
“That’s it,” she says. There’s a pause. “Well, the reason I was asking was because Colin called to get your home number. Apparently he wanted to take you out for lunch on Sunday but your mobile was off.” I feel my stomach sink. “Toby?” ask Quinn. “Hey, are you there, Toby?”
“Yes,” I say. I study the painting of the two little girls on the beach. It really could be Quinn and me, the dark-haired girl short and skinny and the blonde taller. I feel inexplicably sad. I will never regain the childish wonder I felt upon capturing a bullhead or finding a pale pink sea anemone. I turn away from the painting. “Colin wanted to ask me out? As in a date?”
“Yup,” says Quinn. “But if you and Josh are together I’ll get Bruce to let Colin know. There’s no point in Colin gett
ing his hopes up if you’re really into Josh, right?”
“No,” I say. “We’re not together. This boat trip isn’t even a date, remember? I already told you that. It’s just brunch.” I look up at the ceiling.
“Okay,” says Quinn. “So Colin still has a chance?”
A chance, I think. Like I’m a prize in a raffle. Does he have a chance? I smile. “I . . . is he really interested in me?”
“Apparently,” says my best friend dryly. “Not that you take my word for anything.”
“Well, sure. It’d be fun to go out with him,” I say. “Some other time. Why not?”
“Fine,” says Quinn. She gives a long-suffering sigh. “I guess he’ll call you.”
“Great,” I say. I try to keep the smile from my voice.
“You really do need some new underwear,” says Quinn. “Nice ones, I mean. Not beige.”
“Right. I’ll get some,” I say. And I really mean it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE :
HATE MAIL
Since my building’s parking lot is tiny, and a few more residents will have to die before I manage to get a space, I have to park in the street, nearby. Last night, the only free spot was beneath a massive oak that’s home to a murder of crows. One of them is now hiding overhead, screeching at me. I reckon that long ago, someone substituted the term “flock” with “murder” because they wanted to murder those creepy birds, which take an evil delight in dropping small items and crap onto anything within range. I scurry toward my car, holding my purse over my head.
I lower my purse, dig out my keys, and stop. A small parcel has been tied to my driver’s side view mirror with yellow rope. Weird. It wasn’t there last night. I lean closer. That’s a lot of knots. It’d take some serious Girl Guides’ skills to undo it.
I look around and take a step back. Why would someone tie a package to my car? Could it be dangerous? I wonder who I should call, then decide on Bruce and Quinn. I fish my mobile out of my bag.
