Angie’s move to Laval comes as a surprise. Angie has never confided in me; our relationship so far has been very formal.
I instruct the students to tidy up before leaving for lunch and call Linda to my desk. I ask her if Angie has spoken to her about her family’s situation.
“She’s told me that her mother is not all there. I met her once and she looked out of it … and her Dad’s a dick, always out working. Angie is really alone.”
“Have you seen her much after school?”
“Not after school, but she likes to hang around with us at recess and lunch. At first we didn’t like it, but she’s a scream to be with. She’s very different outside of class. When she comes back to class, we’ll take her to the club to cheer her up.”
“What club?”
“You know the club we go to—Bar à Go-Go—on the corner of Bleury and St. Catherine.”
“Why there of all places? Isn’t that a strip club?” I ask, alarmed.
“Yeah, but it’s not what you think. In the afternoons, they give dancing lessons.”
“Is that where you’ve been taking your jazz dancing lessons?”
“Yeah, me and Gina. They give us lessons for free.”
“Why would they give you free lessons?”
“They might hire us … as dancers … after we graduate.”
“Do your parents know you go there?”
“Not really. But it’s not a big deal, Miss. In the afternoons, it’s a regular bar. Once we even saw Frank Masters there. He knows they give us dancing lessons there.”
“Who are ‘they’? Who owns that place?”
“Jocelyn is the dance teacher; Charlie is the bouncer and Nico, I think, is the owner.”
The name Nico raises my suspicion.
“You mean the wrestler?”
“Yeah, Nico Demon, the wrestler.”
My suspicions were correct.
I become more worried as I speak to Linda. The club in question is known to be a hangout for some underworld figures—Jack Russo’s hangers on, no doubt—and Nick Demon is the same Nicodemo, who travelled on the Saturnia with us. He developed a wrestling career and a long criminal record after he landed in Halifax.
His picture has appeared more than once in local papers in connection to organized crime in Montreal. I still shudder whenever I see his face. I’ll need to keep Angie away from him.
21. THE ULTIMATUM
I SIT IN THE DEN, staring vacuously at the bookshelves. I’m reflecting on my rash offer. Sean won’t approve, and how will I explain his presence in the apartment to Angie? With Angie occupying the den, J.P. won’t be able to stay overnight on his visits to Montreal. But I want very badly to do something for Lucia—to make up for the times I let her down in the past.
The bookshelves line three walls and contain hundreds of books, which I’ve arranged by topic: Sean’s books on education, literature, and philosophy, my hairdressing textbooks, and other Italian and English books on various subjects. Mostly, though, the shelves are stocked with the old books I inherited from Gaetano. I believe that it’s those books that Sean is so fond of that have settled our relationship like nothing else before—or after. But Sean has shown no interest in sharing his knowledge with me, as I had hoped would happen naturally. Since his involvement in politics, the distance between us seems to be widening exponentially.
“Are you meditating?’ Sean asks. I hadn’t heard him come in.
“Actually, maybe … we may be having a guest,” I answer.
“Is it actually or maybe? What do you mean, Cat?”
I explain to him about the possibility of Angie staying with us for a while.
“You offered her the den without discussing it with me?”
“It will only be for a couple of weeks, until her mother is out of the hospital. I was wondering if you could stay with one of your friends when she comes.”
“Her mother is in a coma, and you have no idea how long it will be. I could stay at a friend’s for a day or two, but not for a couple of weeks. You know how I feel about getting involved with this family. I should have been consulted on this.”
“You never consult me when J.P. comes over.”
“J.P. is like family to me.”
“Angie is like family to me.”
“You never saw her before this September and she’s family? Anyway, J.P. is expecting to stay here after the Thanksgiving weekend, so I hope the den is free by then.”
“Thanks for the advance notice. If Angie is still here by then, J.P. will have to go to a hotel. He can afford it.”
“And your Mafia-connected student can’t?”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl, and her mother is in a coma and she has no one to talk to … to take care of her, for crying out loud and…”
“You can’t even talk straight, let alone think logically.”
“I can’t think logically? It’s your inconsiderate … you’re so menefreghista….” As I try to find the right words in English, I kick the sofa-bed in frustration.
“I’m a what? That’s a new one.” Sean shakes his head. He walks into the bedroom and, before slamming the door behind him, says, “Remember I pay half the rent for this lousy apartment. I’m entitled to use half the space as I wish.”
I pitch one of his books at the door, throw myself on the sofa-bed, and have one of my muffled crying fits before I sit up and try to figure out what is happening between Sean and me.
We started out as colleagues, became friends, and enjoyed a short stint as lovers before assuming the role of playmates. But he quickly lost interest in playing house. We now eat at different times and he’s often out of town. Our sex life has diminished to the point that I feel that our relationship has entered a new phase: that of roommates, with very dissimilar housekeeping habits. Tonight we have become two estranged property owners fighting for turf.
“A bad and a good never make something bad happen,” my mother would say. I’ll never be able to trade subjugation for the sake of keeping peace in the family as Mother’s words would suggest, but I must at least try to communicate intelligently to Sean not only my sense of obligation towards Angie, but above all, our obligation to each other. I’ll speak to him in the morning when we’ve both cooled off our anger.
Our spat still lingers in the air as Sean and I sit quietly having breakfast, each of us perusing a section of the Montreal Star.
Sean must leave for Ottawa and be there till Sunday to meet with J.P. and his election committee. They must finalize his candidacy for the by-election.
“Did you come up with some names?” Sean asks.
“What names?” I ask puzzled, and then I remember. J.P. has given Sean the responsibility of updating a list of Italian-Canadian community leaders and media personalities, and Sean had asked for my input. “Sorry, but I can’t be of much help. I’ve been away from the community for a while now.”
“Don’t you have a journalist friend who publishes that left-leaning paper? I heard he’s endorsing the conservative candidate,” he asks.
“Oh, Antoine? Yes, he sided with the PQ in the referendum.”
“Precisely. His PQ cronies are also backing Martillo, that TV announcer. He has the support of the community’s literati. Maybe we can work at getting him on our side, being your paesano. We should invite him for dinner one evening when J.P. is here.”
“Don’t count on me for that,” I say, “and I wouldn’t bet on him helping you out of friendship for me. He doesn’t do anything for anyone.”
“Sorry I asked for your help,” Sean says.
“Sean,” I say, “we need to talk about something very important … about our relationship … where it’s headed.”
He flings the paper off the table and gets up, “Right now? Be reasonable. I have a battle on my hands as it is in my campaign against this Mar
tillo. You’re asking me to surround myself with the most negative of ethnic images … whether real or not, and you want to talk about relationships?”
I keep my voice as calm as possible, “I know, it’s never a good time to talk about us, but I want to make this very clear before you leave: If my offer to Angie is accepted, I won’t go back on my word. We’ll simply have to work around it. But most importantly, when you come back on Sunday, I want a clear indication on your part on whether you’re ready to commit to me before the craziness of the campaign starts.”
“Are you talking marriage? Is this an ultimatum?”
“Call it what you want, but I want a real home, a real companion, and yes, a real marriage, in the true sense of the word. If you’re not ready for it, I’ll understand and we’ll simply part ways.” I walk away to go get ready for work. He leaves the apartment without saying goodbye.
22. READING GLASSES
ANGIE WILL BE PLACED IN my care. Julie pops into the classroom before the first period bell to tell me Social Services has approved my proposal and give me Angie’s new contact information.
“Who gives a shit?” Angie answers, sounding indifferent and far away, when I call to tell her of the school’s decision.
“It’s important that you come back to school as soon as possible,” I tell her.
The only bit of information that Angie volunteers is that her uncle, Alfonso, has informed the Canadian authorities that Pasquale is not a Canadian citizen. If they find him, they could extradite him back to Italy.
“He’s lived here for fifty years, and he never bothered to become a citizen. What does that make me?” Angie asks.
“You were born here,” I say, “You’re automatically a Canadian citizen.”
“Big fucking deal,” she snorts. “My mother’s in a coma; my father disappeared, and if they find him, they’ll send him back to Italy. That makes me a fucking orphan, that’s what.”
I don’t know what to respond. I ask about her mother’s condition.
“Her usual happy self … dead to the world.”
People that know Pasquale have said that Angie is her father’s daughter. From the few times I saw Pasquale before Angie was born, I don’t see any physical resemblance between them except for their wiry, unruly hair. I remember a short man with a bony face, thin lips, and a recessed chin, while Angie’s chin line is strong and well-defined, her lips plump and defiant. They do share the same lack of social graces. I remember the telephone conversation I had with Pasquale two weeks ago that left me unsettled for several hours.
After having Angie in my class for a month, it had become obvious to me that the girl was practically illiterate. She couldn’t read from the English textbook, nor from the French one that I brought in for her. I felt exasperated, thinking she was being uncooperative.
“I need glasses. I can’t see,” Angie repeated touching her eyes with her hands.
“The old man doesn’t want me to get them. You know how they are, Miss. He thinks I won’t find a husband if I wear glasses.”
She told me how every effort made by her other school to get her eyes checked had gone unheeded by both her parents. I made arrangements with the school nurse to have Angie’s eyes tested.
“You can have them tested, but it doesn’t mean I’ll get glasses. You don’t know my father, testa dura Calabrese,” Angie said, knocking on her head. Those were the first Italian words I had heard her say.
I had called Lucia, who knew about the problem but somehow didn’t seem overly concerned. “I have never seen her open a book, with or without glasses,” she said. Then she gave the receiver to her husband
“The problem with Angelina … it’s not the glasses,” the father said, talking to me laboriously in Italian rather than in dialect. “Angelina has always been pigheaded and lazy. The glasses are just an excuse.”
“But if she can’t see, she can’t read.”
“Can you guarantee me that if she gets glasses she’ll start studying?” he asked.
“No, that I cannot guarantee. But I can guarantee that if she doesn’t get them, she will never be able to read. Signor Mancuso, Angelina is illiterate!” I was beginning to raise my voice. I felt my face flush with anger. Pasquale half-heartedly agreed to have her eyes tested. To make sure he’d get her glasses, I got Julie, the guidance counselor, involved, who in turn contacted Social Services. At the time, I had been mostly upset at Angie’s father, but as I think about it now, Lucia’s behaviour was also inexcusable. Where has she been all this time? None of it makes any sense to me. If anything, these people—my people and Angie’s people—have the major fault of smothering their children with love. Even when they fail you, you somehow feel obligated toward them and love them back. “What has happened to this family?”
Angie, almost “orphaned,” as she herself pointed out, will now, more than ever, need someone to care for her. I think of the irony of labelling someone like Angie “special” and then making her feel like a misfit. Imagine the distortion in the child’s mind! Any hint of difference, any little spark that might make her stand out from the bland and the uniform, has been snuffed out of her before it had any chance of shining. Small fires can burn undetected for a long time. Maybe, in Angie’s case, it is this spark, repressed for so long, that has turned into a sneer.
I end the telephone conversation with Angie. “Come back to school, Angie, as soon as possible. We miss you.”
23. BAD AIR
STEVE, THE UNION REPRESENTATIVE, calls an impromptu staff meeting. Teachers across the province are gearing up for a strike to protest the school boards’ plans to set up systems of accountability and teacher evaluation. Instead of a general strike, the different unions are proposing surprise sporadic walkouts in different schools each day. This will create more confusion for the school boards than a one-day protest strike, and will get more frequent news coverage for the teachers.
At the meeting, I sit next to Bruce. He sought me out as he came into the auditorium to ask me about Angie. Bruce has a soft, relaxed manner of speaking. He looks me straight in the eyes with a curious expression when I mention my visit to the hospital.
Steve’s voice booms across the room, “Be ready to walk out at any time!” and goes on to explain the system for advising teachers when to walk out. Bruce glances at me sideways, nudges my arm, and reminds me that the deadline for applying for department head is the end of the day. He’s heard there’s only one other applicant, the electro-technology teacher, Mike, who is very close to Frank.
“Go for it, Cathy. Let’s not let these clowns get the upper hand,” he says. I nod and feel myself blushing.
“Something else needs to be discussed in the presence of the union representative,” Steve goes on, “The b-a-a-a-d air in the school!”
For the last couple of years, many teachers have complained of persistent headaches and dizziness. Some blame it on the poor quality of the air circulating through the ventilation system. A heated discussion ensues between the more militant teachers and the more ethically-minded ones about what protest measures we should take.
With Bruce sitting next to me, I listen to this debate with only half an ear, grinning as he pulls a face. Susan, one of the secretaries, has had her eye on Bruce for some time. She once remarked that Bruce has a tendency to undress the ladies with his eyes. “I fear he may be a womanizer,” she said, but she still pins her hopes on him.
Bruce unsettles me. It has been a while since I have felt anyone looking at me the way he does. I wouldn’t mind feeling undressed by someone as gentle-mannered as Bruce. Sitting next to him, I wish I didn’t have to talk at all. Words can be both a burden and a barrier. I have a hunch that Bruce might be the type of man who would know you just by being next to you. I wonder why the touch of my arm brushing against his makes me feel as if we could easily melt into each other without saying much.
The union re
presentative ends the meeting by promising to bring the matter of the bad air to the attention of the union executives.
Everyone applauds and Bruce turns towards me, “When Angie comes back, we’ll have to meet more regularly. We’ll make sure she gets the help she needs.”
I smile broadly and mumble, “I’d like that.”
After the meeting, I walk down to class with the French department head, Cecile Campeau. She’s to be the live model for the perm lesson, since she was the first to come forward when I advertised for volunteers in the daily bulletin. She has a very resolute manner of walking and talking, and as we head downstairs we listen to Mike and the other vocational teachers disagree loudly about the walkouts, but only because the plan would penalize teachers where it hurts the most: our pocketbooks.
“We have no bargaining power,” Mike says. “We need the janitors on our side. With their help, we’ll close down all the schools in Quebec.”
Mike and his friends keep talking as they enter the Tech.-Voc. staff room and we continue on to the hairdressing class. Cecile can’t contain her disgust at the behaviour of the teachers. She can’t believe that the same teachers who have complained about the principal’s easy-going attitude are now ganging up against him because of his stricter policies. I know the men will be huddling in the room, concocting schemes for how to get WLHS on the six o’clock news.
24. THE PERM LESSON
I SETTLE CECILE ON A hairstyling chair and ask the students to form a semi-circle around me. I tell them that the challenge of giving a good permanent is not in just getting hair to curl, but in getting it to look more natural than the natural.
“The trick is to change the natural shape of the hair gently, without force.” Cecile sits and listens, absorbed by what I have to say. She will be getting a free perm and a hairdressing lesson in the bargain.
I ask the students to analyze Cecile’s hair, and decide on the proper selection of lotion and rod size. The students move quickly and seem keen. They touch Cecile’s hair and write down their observations on a client record card. I don’t disagree with any of their observations. That Cecile has fine, limp hair is visible to anyone a block away. But as I handle the hair, my own fingertips tell me another story.
The Women of Saturn Page 12