“But, sir, the judge said I could stay.”
“It was a recommendation, not a court order, and your parents are adamant.” He itemizes their trumped-up charges. “They’re concerned that your grades are dropping and they want you closer to home so you can help with your stepbrother.”
“Mr. Hamilton, Ari lost her father, her grandmother, and her uncle this year. Not to mention the robbery and her sister leaving. That she’s in school at all is a miracle let alone that her lowest mark is what? A sixty.”
“A sixty-three. And I lost my tiny nephew and my dog, too, sir.”
“Oh, Ari.” Mrs. Russell moves in with too much poor-little-thing in her eyes and I bite hard on my inside cheek.
“Ari, I have no authority in this.”
“Could you call and ask the judge?”
“I’ll assist in any way I can but for now you have to go with the constable outside.”
“No, sir. I’m not getting in a car with him.”
“Ari, you have no choice.” Mr. Hamilton nods through the glass.
The Tool ambles in. “All set?”
“Ari, go with the officer. We’ll help you get this sorted.”
“No, sir. I’ll go to the school on my own and he can arrest me if I don’t.”
The Tool reaches out to incarcerate my arm.
“Don’t touch me. Article 72, subsection five of the criminal code states that a female has the right under law to request the presence of a female officer at all times and can refuse transport if said female officer is not present.”
“Don’t make me carry you out over my shoulder.”
“Refusal will result in disciplinary action and a fine of ten thousand dollars.”
Mr. Hamilton stands, “Mrs. Russell, I’ll cover your class. Drive Ari to Jarvis Collegiate and deliver her records. Officer O’Toole, you can follow if you wish, but I think it would be in the best interest of the child to allow her a quiet admission.”
“I have my orders.”
Mr. Hamilton lifts the receiver. “What’s your superior’s number? I’m sure he’ll find this arrangement agreeable.”
“Fine.” O’Toole backs out. “Just see it’s done.”
“Thank you, sir.” I say. “That one has very sticky hands, and unfortunately, if you do want to talk to his superior officer on this particular mission it would be my mother’s undercover cop.”
Mr. Hamilton scratches his substantial hair. “Is that true, what you said? About the criminal code?”
“A complete fabrication, sir. Women have about as many rights as a potato slug.”
Chase is on the hit list but the Dicks have no clue that mind-spirit love thrives on existential angst. He’d already taken up Iggy’s mantle of finding me a quote a day, tucking it into the cracks of my old locker like sacred prayers offered to the Wailing Wall. Now that I’m banished from Birchmount, I find them tucked into my coat pocket or stuck to a telephone pole on my walk to school.
The Dick tries to get me fired from the Riverboat with threats of raids and harassment. Crystal told me Bernie stared him smack in the face and said, “Don’t push me, you wormshit. You don’t want my high friends in your low places. One call and every rock in your life will be turned. Even your hemorrhoids won’t have a place to hide.”
The Dick’s pursuit loses steam when he needs a five and Mum is whining for a ten. Until they can figure out how to squeeze the golden egg out of me they’ll pluck me, one feather at a time.
On Saturday, Aunt Sabina lets me use the workroom in the basement of the store. I leave half the shirts with her, loading the rest in a shopping bag.
Navigating the fire escape to my nest is tightrope-tricky with all the rations she’s sent along.
Picture this: just nearing fifteen, tucked on my chair, drinking tea from a pudgy orange mug, and eating Sabina’s raspberry-filled paczki. “Turn Turn Turn” playing in the background while I sew crystal beads on shirts, my Anne Frank assignment for school germinating in my head.
Saturday night at the Riverboat my tie-dyed creations peel off me as fast as I put them on. I sell them for eight bucks and most say “keep the change,” from a ten. The band, a folk-rocky group with a little down-home flavour, has me jumping, and Shawn, lead singer in the band, has his sights on me being his bum warmer tonight. He’s too much of a wake-up-with-a-different-girl-every-day guy for me, but he’s also too music-full to be ignored. He kisses the mic. “Usually I’m the one tossing a shirt or two, but—” his guitar points to me—“tonight, I want that one.” The crowd whoops as I peel and toss. He drapes it around his neck. “Girl, this one’s for you—‘Wild Thing’ . . .”
I show off, catching body grooves around the room, because Ricky has stopped by tonight. When he leaves he kisses words into my ear. “I have to get to work. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He stays on my ear saying nothing and everything, then sponges up some of the salt sweat on my neck.
Three breaths away from sleep Chase pulls the hair away from my ear. “Ricky likes you.”
“He makes life with the Dicks a step up from living in your standard rectum.”
“Stay as untangled from that house as you can.”
I turn toward him. “I have a choice? By law I’m anchored to that ship of ghouls. Besides, I wouldn’t mind some kisses.”
“Help yourself. Just don’t forget it’s darn near impossible to run with your pants down.” His hand paints my face. “Just two and a half months and you can head east. I’m pulling for some summer lovin’ for you and Jake.” He closes my eyes. “Dream on that.”
I surface in the small attic in my friend’s arms. He groans at my escape. “Where’re you going?”
“Anne Frank is calling me.”
“Grab my book, too. We’ll read together. And maybe hot chocolate. And Sabina’s doughnuts.”
“Anything else?”
“Can you piss for me? I’m too tired.”
The featherbed captures us for hours. Through the barred window, the tail of a jet dissolves into absolute blue. “Anne was my age when she wrote this. I’m supposed to write a diary for an assignment, a curtain-opened week of my life. I don’t think I know this new teacher well enough to barf up my truth.”
“If you can’t pen the truth then don’t bother writing anything.” Chase lifts his face to meet mine. “Is your new school okay?”
“Not so new. It’s the oldest in Toronto. When I walked down the dark halls, I heard Auntie Nia say, ‘Find the treasure.’”
“Have you found any?”
“My art teacher, Miss Burn, has potential. And Jasper gets all awhirl when it’s time for English, but I’ve decided not to care. I’m just going to be one of the bricks and just watch, not feel anything or know anyone.”
FORTY-ONE
Do I get, “Miss Appleton, may I see you?” more than any other kid on this planet?
I approach Mr. Ellis’ desk. “Yes, sir.”
“Just checking in. A change of schools during the third semester is never easy.”
“Like a rolling stone.”
“Pardon?”
“I keep a bag packed.”
His eyes line up with his smile. “Your teacher from Birchmount tells me I can look forward to some brilliant writing.”
“You talked to Mrs. Russell? Do teachers take a blathering oath or something?”
“Meddling is an optional course but I did my thesis on it. Purely selfish on my part. School bores the hell out of me. Do you need an extension on the assignment?”
He seems like a “worked late on my novel and didn’t have time to shave” teacher. His hair is the black and white that puts him somewhere in the middle between the beginning and the end. Under his elbow-patched jacket, his shirt is punctuated with ink dots. I’m trying hard to hate everyone here but when he read aloud from Anne’s diary today I go
t sucked in by the little catch in his voice.
“I’m not up to capturing my war on paper, sir. Can I just write an essay on the book?”
“Miss Burn says you’re a gifted artist.”
“She said that? Sheesh, am I the staff room freak topic?”
“Better. You were dinner table talk.”
“You and Miss Burn?”
“Going steady for over thirty years now. Just so you know, we’re annoying buggers. I’d like you to try the diary. An artist with a palette of words creates extraordinary things.”
“Nicely said, sir. Can it be fiction? Like imagining I’m Anne.”
“I want personal observations. An honest, unedited slice of your life.”
“Do you have a supply of Pepto?”
“A case of it came with my grade nine teacher’s kit.”
“Who will read it?”
“Just me.”
“I’ve heard that before. Spilled my guts only to have them stuck on a flagpole before God and country.”
“Did you start writing with the rest of the class yesterday?”
“I gave it a go.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Do you have a dog?”
“A hound. Bunny. Why?”
“Generally I trust dog people.” I hand him my spiral notebook.
Monday, April 8, 1968 ~ Rising
Left-behind holes are bigger on Mondays. They’re shaped like the sound ‘corka’ makes on my tongue and the windrush of legless flight. Spring sun is thin, barely wringing in the day. Devil girl—black-rooted, emerald-fingered, raccoon-eyed—dream-twitches under grey sheets. Her nipple, squished beneath her arm stares at me as much as to say, “Help, I can’t breathe.” I kill the alarm before it blares to avoid “fuck off” being the first words I hear today.
Under the hall light with the burnt-out bulb is the waiting spot for the throne room. This is the holy hour when all souls seek sanctuary, no, maybe deliverance. All I want is to wash off the reek of smoke and stale lives. Duchess of Dickdom is puking behind the closed door. It’s what I’ll remember most about her when she flushes the last of her life down the toilet. The sound of retching is, I think, my earliest memory, back when Jasper and I were tiny seahorses swimming in the dark sea. Her distant whine still needles after fifteen years, “Christ, if I’m pregnant again I’ll kill myself.” A man, far off, answering, “If it’s another bloody girl I’ll save you the trouble . . .” Well, bloody girl I am, eh.
My leg hairs shiver as April’s cool slips in with the opening of the front door, hurrying up the stairs ahead of The Soldier Boy. The third step squeaks under the weight of his filthy sock. The seventh step coughs. My white panties and undershirt blush pink from heat. He passes closer than needed in this narrow space and not close enough; one dirty finger tracing the scalloped lace, two fingers lagging behind on an inch of belly skin.
Empty, the Duchess opens the door, blind she passes. Blue silk kisses my arm. The brown stain on the back of her slip is an exact map of Italy. I review—in 1527 the Germans and Spaniards invaded Italy . . . I’m ready for my history test on the Renaissance.
Hungry Boy sleeps on the sofa, mouth open baby-bird wide. Turning off the hissing TV sends him chewing air and reshuffling his knotted shirt. I invite him to school with me but he mumbles something like “my ovaries are infected.” It’s as good an excuse as any.
Silent Child sits at the table with his porridge balanced on a crumb-lined pizza box. The sound of me saying no to Frosted Flakes “Eat your oatmeal,” makes me an old prune. Silent Child claws the air in defense of the flakes and I tell him that Tony the Tiger doesn’t really think they’re great and Mr. Kellogg is a big fat liar.
Ratty sneakers and go-go boots mound up together as the Big Dick ploughs open the door. This wind is colder, like winter knows him by heart. Misery follows him in. Flakes ping an unwashed bowl like iced-rain hitting a window. The box teeters on the counter-clutter, spilling onto the worn linoleum. Menacing police-issue shoes crush, crush, crush as he milks and extra sugars the mountain of cereal. With the Daily Star captured in his armpit, bowl in right hand, lukewarm tea in the left he pushes his bulk up the stairs.
Silent Child and I exit night, lock the door, and enter day while the house sleeps.
Mr. Ellis closes the book, slow. “Shit.”
“Sir?”
“Holy shit.”
I pull.
He tugs. “Let me give it another read.”
A good yank gives me ownership and I back to the door.
“What’s wrong?”
“Some things aren’t safe on paper.”
“You have to write the rest of it with the same honesty.”
“If I’m murdered over this it’ll be your fault.”
“Fair enough.” His pen misses his pocket, adding a blue squiggle to his shirt. “Is Jasper your brother? He’s the only one you name.”
“I don’t know you well enough for that one.” I retreat a few more steps. “Let’s just say he’s the only one who has never left me.”
Cooking is easy when everything goes into a big pot with Mrs. Butters’ secret flavourings and plays together for a few hours, yet the Little Dicks always seem astounded. Ricky steals a taste, licking his lips slow. Todd needs a small bowl before dinner. I navigate a sample toward Mikey’s mouth but he clamps shut. I crouch low. “Mikey, it’ll be okay. How about you and Ricky go get crusty buns to go with the stew.” I button his jacket. “I know some better ways not to hurt so much. Will you let me show you?”
His skinny arms seize my neck and my hands hold him soft around the get-over-here bruises and the I’ve-had-it-with-you smacks.
Mikey’s teacher summoned the Dick to discuss the zippered mouth problem. Now he returns slamming mad. “Where’s that fucking ass-wipe?”
“He went with Ricky to get some bread.” I dole out a beer. “Can I say something, sir?”
“Can I stop you?”
“Well, you’ve got more than a hundred pounds of muscle over me, and a belt, and a gun.”
Ricky filled me in that it drives the Dick squirrelly that he thinks he’s spawned dumber-than-dirt offspring. Hope ran big for Mikey. His would be the report card the Dick would finally be able to shove in his own father’s face and say, “See what a smart kid I made?”
The Dick stares at me and does this soothing thing, rubbing the bristles of his head back and forth, back and forth. “What smart-ass thing do you have to say?”
“I know you think that I think I’m smart, but who I really think is smart is Mikey. Trouble is he’s as mule-headed and steel-willed as you. Stupid people spout off their mouths. Think of the guts Mikey has to take the whippings you give him instead of just giving in.”
“The little shit’s going to fail grade two, for fuck’s sake. They’re bringing in the bloody school shrink . . . he’s stupid and nuts.”
“What else does he have to bargain with? He can pass and he can talk. You just have to give him a good reason to.”
“And what would that be? He’s not living with that loser mother.”
“You’re the cop. Negotiate with him.”
The door opens and the breadmen trudge in.
“But for certain, a whack will just make him dig in deeper.”
Maybe the Dick is a grain above dirt-dumb. He separates his thoughts like he does the carrots from the stew, setting the ones Mikey won’t like aside. “Your teacher says you’re good at math and she liked that project on butterflies. She thinks all your subjects are good but she can’t pass you if you don’t do the talking pieces. She says you might be a good reader but how’s she going to know if she doesn’t hear it, eh?”
Mikey dips his bread and eats a little.
“Sometimes your old man has to negotiate with a bad guy. I give a little, he gets a little. Maybe if you s
tart talking at school we can come to an understanding here. Can we give that a try, kid?”
Mikey raises his head, coming as close to a nod as he can.
Mr. Ellis helps himself to the chair beside me. “Are you hiding?”
“I prefer libraries to cafeterias.”
“Can I see Tuesday’s entry?”
“I decided not to do one.” He deflates, like I’ve just squashed his imaginary friend. “Oh, don’t get sulky. I wrote one, sir. You just make me jittery.”
“Yeah, I make myself jittery.” He taps his pencil. “Do you want to be a writer?”
“An artist, I think.”
“I’m going to fight Mina for you.”
Ari, an English and art teacher are fighting over us. Give it to him. Give it.
Jasper makes me slide my assignment over. “I swear, you betray me and I’ll never write another word.”
Tuesday, April 9, 1968 ~ Staying Awake
There are memory noises in this decrepit house: coughs and creaks, groans and shudders. All the houses that have kept me, slept me, have written their own songs. Skyfish was ocean lullabies and goddess whispers. Aquarius: spring wake after a long winter.
There’s a room inside me, northeast of my centre, where I store all the old sounds. Jasper taught me how to get back to some places and escape others by travelling through time and space. Seeing that distances keep forcing their way into my life, it’s perhaps the best gift he’s ever given me.
Jasper tells me, too, when to sleep and when to stay awake. Anne knows what I mean. I’m talking to her in my head, comparing where we find ourselves holed up and where we’ve been. Anne isn’t where she wants to be but she’s hearing a lot of music in the small annex. When I tell her there’s just noise in the craphouse she wants to slap me. She could, too, there’s that much spunk in her; and a smack for complaining would be fair, considering the way things turned out for her. I sense her smile, the way girls do when there’s talk about boys. “Hungry Boy is a fart on a tuba. Soldier Boy is like drums that vibrate through your bones. But, Silent Child is the moment the conductor lifts his hand and the theatre holds its breath for the first note. See? There’s music in the craphouse, Ari.”
The Clay Girl Page 19