The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “Auntie Dolores got me a job with Théâtre du Rideau Vert.”

  “Wish you were going to be living here.”

  “I miss Montreal, and it’ll be nice living with Auntie Dolores.”

  Jacquie laughs, “Better get her back to Springwood. She’s crazy.”

  “No, Dolores wrote me every week. We talked about stuff and . . . Uncle Gord is gone.”

  In unison we say, “What?”

  “He left her for some young thing.”

  Jennah near spits. “Good riddance. I hope she got the house.”

  “She outsmarted him out of almost everything.” As Jacquie parks the truck in the lot of the Jesus Is The Way Tabernacle, Jillianne asks, “When’s Jory due?”

  “Next week.”

  We mount the stairs, Jasper spinning with revampment anticipation. He circles the drain when we find Jory surrounded by prayer-pleading parishioners. She’s wet-hot, eye-rolling, blood-soaked, and dying. Jennah roars, “Get back! How long has she been like this?”

  “Two days.” They blather about God protecting.

  “Fucking assholes.” Jennah plucks blankets. “Jacquie, bring the truck to the front. Ari, get her head. Jill, her feet. ”

  I stay in the back warming her best I can as we rush to the General.

  At the hospital they whisk Jory away and it feels like days before a nurse retrieves us and takes us to her room. Half-doped and her belly half the size she stares at the frosted window. Jacquie follows the nurse out. When she returns, her face answers all our questions.

  Jory whimpers, “Please, Jesus, I want my baby.”

  Jacquie pushes her head between her palms like pain is something she can squeeze out, then hightails it back out of the room. Minutes later, voices escalate in the hall, “What do you think you’re doing? Stop, or I’ll call security.”

  Jacquie’s voice cuts like glass. “Have you ever had one snatched away without so much as a goodbye?”

  “No, but letting them see . . . it just makes things harder.”

  “You’ve no clue what harder things wait.”

  As Jacquie rounds the curtain Jory’s arms open, reaching for the swaddled bundle. His lips sit like a tiny blue heart on his perfect face; lashes make little golden smiles on his closed eyes. “Why, Jesus? Why? He’s cold. He so cold.”

  We curve around, baptizing him with salt tears.

  Whatever path brings Auntie Dolores to Jory’s hospital room gives me faith, not so much faith in God as in a goodness that runs in the veins of women. She comes quietly around the curtain. “Oh, Jory, I’m so, so sorry.” She near lifts Jory and the baby into her arms. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s cold, Auntie.”

  “See what I’ve brought.” She rummages her carry-all, unearthing a layette, wool changing colours through every radioactive shade of a rainbow. “When I saw Elsie knitting it, I thought what else would do for Jory’s baby?”

  Jacquie takes the baby. “Do you have his name?”

  “Jet.”

  “Perfect, perfect name. Ari, fill the basin with warm water.” Jacquie lays him on the bed and unwraps the gift while singing a lullaby, half in Polish, The sky is coming through the dark night . . . Jennah helps Jory sit up so her finger can reach his hand, tiny fingers curving like a conductor inviting music to the room. “Jennah, I need your lipstick.” Jacquie coats the bottom of Jet’s foot with Peach Passion and imprints it onto the little flannel blanket. The second foot comes out mirror perfect. Auntie Dolores helps her do the hands. Jory cradles the soft blanket while Jacquie towel-tucks Jet under her wing, washing his pale violet body. He’s like dressing a stiff porcelain doll, but bundled in the gift he looks like he’s been baptized in a paintbox.

  Jory clings tight until Auntie Dolores says, “Give your angel a kiss now and let me take care of what needs to be done. You sleep.”

  Jory releases him to me. “Do you like his name, Ari?”

  “Jet. A glint of light in the sky, disappearing, but when it does you know it’s gone to some magical far-off place.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Jory is a grief rock star, a suffer-the-little-children beacon in her church, ministering to wounded humanity. Apparently, a dead baby is all part of God’s wonderful plan to make Jory a witness to His Glory. You ever think God’s an ass, Jasper?

  The one who cries a Niagara is Jacquie, which, by some magic, waters down her headaches, even washes them clean away some days. She looks up from playing peek-a-boo-patty-cake with Arielle. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jennah’s picking me up for dinner at Chan’s Garden in a last-ditch attempt to negotiate my freedom.

  Big Dick, Chick of Dick, and three junior pricks sit at the table. Ricky-Dicky Jr. is a greasy-headed stoner. Dick two, Todd, has Mr. Chan counting his losses at the all-you-can-eat buffet. But it’s spawn three that has me quivering like a chow mein noodle. She’s a size fourteen stuffed into a size-two white sweater dress over black underwears. In front of the Dick she smiles a sweet looking-forward-to-a-life-of-familial-bliss smile. When they look away, her Cleopatra eyes needle through me: “You’re dead, bitch.” And that’s not the worst of it. On her hand sparkles Nana Appleton’s emerald and diamond ring. My ring.

  Wilf uses his big business voice. Jennah cajoles. No deal. They turn down three hundred and fifty dollars not to have me in favour of the two hundred and twenty-five to take me.

  Mum blots her mouth, “Hariet, won’t it be nice to have a sister to share a room with?”

  I search her face for a molecule of humanness and realize I’m barking up the wrong species.

  A small package arrives New Year’s Eve: a ring, three square stones, a black diamond with white diamonds on either side. “Ari, this was my grandmother’s. I was going to give it to you on your sixteenth birthday but I think you need it now. Treasure hunts in dark places are perilous journeys. Nia.” The envelope contains pages of down-home blessings from everyone. I read and reread Jake’s note.

  Last summer-end party, Huey pointed his bow at you and said, ‘That lady is the ocean’s gift to you. She’ll keep you dancing all the days of your life.’ I already knew the truth of that. I’ve known it since we were kids. What I know too is that you, Ari, are the music. With you is the one place I feel truly home. Jake.

  Me, too, Jasper. I want to go home.

  Everyone has gone to a New Year’s Eve dance. No one wanted to but Jacquie hoped a dose of Polish goodness would lighten Babcia’s grief a little. She’s always worn black, mourning the loss of many loves, but since Len’s death darkness weights her tiny frame. Jacquie thought it might do me some good, too, but just imagining toe-turning Polish music makes my lungs cave in on my heart. I hold Arielle tight, breathing through my last hours at home and looking at a year ahead without Len in it.

  I pack light: Skyfish pillow, feather comforter, book, change of clothes, toothbrush, and, of course, a switchblade. “Don’t cry, Jacquie. It can’t be any worse than that camp where they aimed to scare Jesus into us.”

  Franc drives me to the craphouse armed with slide locks and a deadbolt, promising to find me a corner of the house to call my own. He searches high and low. “The cellar is floor to ceiling moldy boxes, vermin droppings everywhere.”

  “How about the attic?”

  “Squirrels I’d say, maybe bats. It’s not well insulated either.”

  Turns out there isn’t even a broom closet to call my own so I’m stuck on a rollaway in Devil Girl’s satanic cave. The whole house smells of mouse piss and stale smoke. Load-bearing grease holds up the kitchen walls. Not a speckle of arborite can be seen past the debris on all surfaces. The cleanest spot in the whole house is the giant cage belonging to a bedraggled parrot named Cunt. A six-year accumulation of shit in the bird’s cage stands as the proudest accomplishment of the Dick’s life.

 
“Did Ronnie get you settled in?”

  “I’m really putting her out, Mum. Please, please, let me stay at the store.”

  “Her name’s Veronica, but she prefers Ronnie.” A cigarette smolders in the ashtray as she lights another.

  I wave a hand in front of her face. “My name is Hariet, but I prefer Ari.”

  “You know, Jacquie talked Len into signing over the store to her. Now she’s turned Jennah against me. She’s another Mary; took your daddy away from us, then Len. I knew what she was up to when he moved her over to the store. Mark my words, Richard will get us what’s ours.”

  “What do you mean—”

  “Oh, here’s Richard. He’s bringing a New Year’s treat.”

  The smell of pizza sucks everyone into the kitchen. Officer Dick lands the box atop dirty dishes. His eyes turn to slits when he grins. “Welcome home, Hariet.” A pizza sliver remains in the box. The Dick roars, “Todd, you fat cow, bring some of that back.”

  I say, “I ate before I came, sir.”

  “You’ll eat when I say you eat.”

  Todd lumbers in with four slices stacked on his arm. I pick up the inch in the box. “This is more than enough.”

  I prefer the waffle-butt I get from the overturned milk crate to whatever I’d get from the stained sofa. While Mum drinks dinner, smoke circles her head like a maritime fog and I marvel that a pretty blue house with Sears catalogue furniture and a gentleman bringing roses was not enough. The first bite refuses to go down. Todd happily rescues me when the Dick goes for another beer. Ricky scarfs down his share, grabs his ratty bomber jacket, and splits. Ronnie pours herself into an orange jumpsuit that bellbottoms out like square-dance skirts around her ankles. “Daddy, I need a ten for roller skating.”

  He opens his wallet, doling out a five. “That’s the bottom of it.”

  Mum negotiates the Bailey’s to her cup. “Hariet, give Ronnie a five.”

  “Sorry, the banks were closed today.”

  Mum coils, ready to spit. A rap on the door untwists her back into the chair.

  Ronnie answers, her sugary voice sounding like she’s in heat.

  “I’m looking for Ari Appleton.” I leap when I hear Chase’s voice.

  “No one here by that name.” Ronnie backs him in the direction of the rink.

  I shoot out the door, and spring off the porch into his hug.

  Commandant Dick roars, “Get the hell back in this house!”

  Chase follows me in, thrusting his hand out to the Dick. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Good to see you again, Mrs. Zajac. Forgive me for dropping by uninvited but I didn’t get a chance to see you at Christmas.” He hands Mum a mega box of Pot of Gold. “Could I have your permission to take Ari out for a walk?”

  Mum checks in with Dickie for her answer and I sense a thumb lowering. “Um, maybe Chase could treat Ronnie and me to roller skating.”

  Mum says, “How about you, Toddie? Would you like to go, too? Like a double date.”

  Ronnie launches my coat at me. “Brilliant. That would make you my date . . . Chase, is it?”

  Todd doesn’t move, just readjusts his sweatshirt making it clear that unwrapping the chocolates is exercise enough for him.

  “Home by midnight or I’ll have the cops out after you.” The Dick snorts at his joke.

  I cling to Chase like he’s floatable debris around the Titanic. He burrows his face into my neck. “Jesus, I miss you so much already.”

  “Puking Christ.” Ronnie yanks my braid. “You dare tell the old man I wasn’t at the rink, I’ll gut you in your sleep.” She turns her palm to Chase. “Gimme the admission.”

  A bargain at three bucks to get rid of her. Her bellbottoms follow her around the block. “Charming,” says Chase.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Everyone can be bought, you just have to figure out what their currency is.”

  “What’s your currency?”

  January coats make it hard to hug but his holding reaches right down to my centre. “Acceptance,” he says.

  I do love him, with every defined and undefined molecule. “Well then, Chase Pace, consider yourself sold. You up for music?”

  “If we go to the Riverboat Bernie’s going to put us to work.”

  “I’m going to need all the cash I can get to keep Mum and Ronnie in line. Poppyseed loaf ought to do it with Todd. The other two, I haven’t a clue.”

  The Riverboat is always sardine-packed, but never more than when Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee play the tiny stage. Something about the blues makes my body slow-fire. I drop off orders while drinking up sultry notes. “I don’t want no cornbread, peas and black molasses . . .”

  Chase says, “Ari, it’s eleven thirty. We better go.”

  When I peel off my apron Bernie moans, “No, doll, you’re not bailing on me.”

  “Sorry, Bernie, a big Dick with a gun set my curfew. Can I leave something in your safe?”

  “No shit.”

  “Just some running money and a ring.”

  He opens the office safe. “Could you work the rest of the week?”

  “I’ll try to swing it.”

  The wah-wah of Sonny’s harp spills through the open door and Brownie is crying, “Hooray, hooray, these women are killing me . . .” I drop my necklace in the safe, too.

  Chase and I make a Cinderella dash toward midnight, rosy-cheeked and laughing. We land at the crapdoor of the craphouse with minutes to spare. Dick opens the door. “Where’s Ronnie?”

  Shit. Jasper, we forgot to write a story. We step in slow. “Um . . . at the rink . . . a friend of hers fell, wham, right back on her head. Ronnie went with her to the hospital. We didn’t know anyone there so we went and put in a shift at the coffee house.”

  “You best be off.” His chin lifts to Chase. “Streetcars don’t run all night.”

  “I have my dad’s car up the street, sir.”

  Mum rallies off the couch, messy and stained, in nothing but a slip; panties on the floor by the coffee table. “You kids have a good time?”

  “I got some good tips. Mummy, would it be okay if I went back to Scarborough with Chase? I have to be at work by seven to get ready for the January sale and I’m not sure if the buses run that early.”

  “I told you, you’re not staying with Jacquie.”

  “Chase’s father is home. He lets me crash in the guest room.” I fish out what looks like a weighty crumple of tips.

  Mum looks over my shoulder for permission. The Dick snaps up the five bucks. “Come Monday this galavanting stops. You understand, missy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Uncle Iggy told me about a time when he was hauled in for interrogation. He’d witnessed neighbours taken, never to return. After he’d been smacked around they let him go. To this moment he remembers the sound of the door closing behind him, the red brick under his feet, the taste of blood on his lip, tucking his sons into their beds, and laying with his Katarina. I know it can’t compare, but deliverance on the first day of 1968 feels like the sweetest moment I can remember.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sunday night I run out of excuses to be somewhere else. After living in grace and mercy, I can’t survive here. Leaving school is a sacrifice I’ll have to make. Jory’s church gives me the best options for hiding. I plan my escape while excavating the kitchen counter. Ricky opens the fridge, surveying the missing mould and debris. “Hey, Hairy, you do this?”

  “Lose a friend?”

  A smack would have surprised me less than, “It’s nice. Thanks.” He helps himself to a Coke and my lunch for tomorrow then leaves for his night job. Thankfully I had digested Uncle Iggy’s quote on the lunch bag before he took it.

  Todd is smoldering in his room after a pummelling by the Dick. Ronnie reanimates off her bed and squeezes into staying-out-all-night gear. B
est break of the day: the Dick comes into the kitchen in uniform. He’s desk sergeant on nights for two whole weeks. As soon as he leaves, I’m gone. He nabs the ringing phone. “Yeah. Christ, don’t start again. I don’t give a fuck if he’s suicidal. Half hour and he’s on my doorstep, or I’ll have him picked up and you won’t get him at all.” He slams the phone, then he sends seeds flying as he shoves the cage housing the mimicking bird. “Shut up, you stupid cunt.” He sits at the clean table. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “What’s to eat?”

  I sacrifice Babcia’s meat loaf and give a sanctioned escape a try. “Would it be okay if I stayed at Chase’s tonight so I’m not late for school?”

  “You’re here to get Mikey up and ready for school.”

  “Who? Todd?”

  “Todd can get his own fat ass out the door. Not that he ever does.” Meat loaf tries to escape his overstuffed face. “Make coffee. Fill the thermos. I’ll take a sandwich of this, too.” The chair grunts as he moves to answer a knock.

  A woman’s voice begs, “Please Rick. You can see him on the weekend.”

  “You had him the whole bloody holiday. Mikey, get your ass in here.” I peek down the hall to a dragged-out replica of my mother standing on the porch with two little hands clinging to her skirts from behind. The Dick growls. “Mikey, now.” A willow-fine boy, seven at most, forces himself inside. His face is waterlogged from pleading not to come here.

  I walk down the littered hall and crouch. “Can I help you with your coat?” He stares at the salt stains weeping around his boots.

  The mother asks, “Who’s this?”

  “Theresa’s kid. Get off, now. ”

  “Bye, Mikey. Mummy loves you.”

  Dick swings the door closed and cranks up Mikey’s chin. “Hey, kid, Santa good to you?”

  He gives a mandatory head nod before dragging his yellow suitcase up the stairs. The Dick hauls on his coat. “See he’s up and ready for school by seven thirty.”

  “But I have to leave by seven to get to school.”