by Vicki Grant
I flicked at the black spot with my fingernail.
I have a competitive streak. I know that. Not my best quality, perhaps, but it worked for me on the basketball court, on the soccer pitch, in my honours history course. I was just trying to make it work for me here.
I loaded more polish on to the cloth and rubbed the last of the spot away.
I needed something good in my life right now. I wasn’t working at a hip coffeehouse any more. I didn’t have a boyfriend. My friends had finally gotten the hint and stopped calling (and that kind of hurt too). What did I have left? I needed Mrs. Burton to think I was the best cleaning lady ever. I needed someone to think I was the best at something again. I didn’t want to fall off the edge of the world.
Nancy F. Burton. She was used to winning too. Her name was on the cup three years running. I used my finger to work the polish into the inscription and thought of the yogourt tub on my dresser. It was almost full of twenty-dollar bills now. That boosted my spirits a bit. We had lots of customers. People liked us. I did a good job.
I did the math. By the end of August, I might actually have enough money to get out of town after all.
By the end of August. Those words were shocking. By the end of August, I was supposed to be packing up for McGill.
I put down the cloth and it was like my heart went down with it. How was I going to tell my parents I wasn’t going to McGill? I couldn’t put it off much longer. Mom was already talking about shopping for my “fall wardrobe.”
What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? Work at another crap job in another crap town? Live by myself? I’d never lived by myself. Go to a different university? How? I’d already turned down all the other offers I’d had. Just wait it out here while Nick and Carly head off to McGill? I’d go crazy. My parents would go crazy.
Had I really thought escape was going to be that easy?
Life was all so complicated and confusing and impossible. Mrs. Burton’s golf cup, on the other hand, was not. I made myself pick up the cloth and started polishing again.
The roses at the base of the trophy were finicky, which at least gave me a problem to attack. I wondered if a Q-tip or a makeup brush would work better than the cloth. I noticed my reflection looking back at me. I really needed to do something about my eyebrows.
Maybe I should use some of the money I’d made this summer to get them waxed. I turned my face to the side and looked again. And get my hair cut. I sucked in my bottom lip when I realized what else I was thinking. And get Nick back.
I went cold and scared. I rubbed harder. I didn’t know where that came from.
I rubbed the last of the polish off the flowers and thought of the rosebush beside our house and the prom pictures we’d taken there and for the first time I felt kind of indignant. Why should I just let Carly have him? Why should I be worried about what I’m doing next year? Why shouldn’t she be the one worried? It wasn’t like me to give up that easy.
This wasn’t me. That other person was me. The one in the red dress with the shiny hair and the neat eyebrows and the basketball trophies. That Betsy would do something about this.
It made me nervous even thinking in a vague, someday kind of way about getting Nick back but it was a start. You’ve got to let a cold car warm up a bit before you take off.
Vroom, vroom, I thought and swallowed a laugh.
I was giving the golf cup one last quick buff when I realized I was being eyeballed.
“Oh, come on! That’s all you’ve done?” Dolores was at the bottom of the stairs with an armload of newspapers for recycling. “I’ve cleaned the entire second floor and emptied the kitty litter too. What’s the matter with you?”
“The matter with me? I got you to do all the work. Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.”
Dolores chuckled. “Good point.” She headed down the basement stairs.
Right then, even Dolores didn’t seem all that bad any more. You just had to stand up to her and she was fine.
I’d stand up to Carly too. Get my boyfriend back. It sounded like a song to me. I started to hum.
I put the cup on the living room mantel and checked what was next on my list. Ironing. My mouth puckered up into a happy little O. Ironing was my new favourite thing. It was so easy to make everything perfect with a good, hot steam iron. I practically skipped to the laundry room.
I dinged a bottle of laundry softener taking the iron out of the cupboard. I managed to catch it before it fell but the cap landed on the floor. I pushed the washer and the dryer apart to get it and saw a bottle of sherry wedged in there too.
Kids, I thought.
I leaned down to pick up the cap and realized there were no kids here. Mr. and Mrs. Burton must be in their seventies. The sherry belonged to them.
One of them had hidden it.
I pictured Mrs. Burton with her nice neat bob and her bridge club and her volunteer work with the Children’s Hospital and the United Way. I got that shimmery feeling again.
I hadn’t suspected her at all—but that was one of the great things about cleaning people’s houses. Those little surprises. I’d become kind of addicted to them ever since I’d stumbled on to Amy’s Prozac. If she was so perfect and she needed antidepressants, what were other people hiding?
Lots. It never took me long to find something. I’d open a few closets or drawers, look in a jewellery box or under a bed, or if the computer was on, maybe check the history. It’s not like I had to ransack anybody’s house. It was all pretty much there for the taking. The racy underwear, the Viagra, the divorce papers. The pictures from someone’s fat days — or bald days. The hunk of hash in the retainer case. I even found a hypodermic needle hidden in a chandelier once, but that was just luck, not looking.
And then there were all the things that shouldn’t have been secret but I knew were. Dr. Norton is a professor at Saint Mary’s. The magazines on top of his bedside table were all called The Economist and Political Science Today—but the ones tucked underneath were People and Us. I knew I’d found his little secret. I didn’t need to look any more. I always felt better about cleaning houses after stuff like that.
I pushed the washer and dryer back and put the cap on the laundry softener. I started ironing the napkins. What was Dolores’s secret? I wondered.
I couldn’t imagine her even having one. She was so out-there. It was like she was cavorting around naked for all the world to see and she didn’t care. Naked made me think of Murdoch.
I shot a hot blast of steam on to a napkin, then pressed and folded and pressed and folded it into a nice, crisp rectangle.
They were perfect for each other. I should be happy for them. To each his own.
I laid out another crumpled napkin and ironed it flat.
“Oh. My. God.” Dolores was standing in the laundry room doorway, shaking her head. “Did somebody hit you with a tranquilizer bullet or something? Seriously. Stephen Hawking could have got those napkins done faster than you.”
I laughed. “Good one, Dolores.”
I could almost see why he liked her.
Chapter 20
Dolores locked the door, gave the mailbox a quick polish with her sleeve, then dropped the key back in.
“Okay,” she said. “See ya. Meet you Monday at the Oreskoviches’. You should be there by nine.” She’d finally given up trying to get me to go out with her after work.
I said, “Yeah. Sure. See you,” then walked away fast. I had an appointment. The Burtons lived just the other side of Larry O’Connell Field and Nick would be there soon.
I turned my face toward the sun and tightened my ponytail. It was another hot day. It felt good—promising—like the start of something new. A door opened and a lady came out of a house carrying a little boy and a big beach bag. I smiled and thought of that children’s book again.
Maybe I could start working on it this weekend. I cut across the street to First Avenue.
The Big Nervous Spider. I only had a title and an image
— Murdoch with eight legs—but there was something about it that kept coming back to me. In fact, the real Murdoch and Murdoch the Spider were getting kind of mixed up in my head. Murdoch the Spider, I just realized, also liked to draw. I saw him working on eight different pictures at once.
Why was I even thinking about this now? I didn’t have time to write a book! I had to get back in shape, fix my hair, figure this whole Nick thing out.
My mind clicked into gear. What if I just showed up at the golf course one Friday night, like I had a lesson lined up or something? Nick’s dad had always liked me.
Too awkward? It’s not like Nick and I could actually talk with Phil standing there, waiting to tee off or whatever. Might be better if I started by running into Cory or Stephan a few times, kind of ease myself in that way.
That got me thinking about what I should wear and how I really didn’t have anything these days and whether I should get my hair done before or after I went shopping. Luckily, there was nobody there to see the stunned look on my face when I came to and realized where I was—at the edge of the field. Everyone was no doubt off swimming or in an air-conditioned mall somewhere.
I knew the heat wouldn’t stop Nick from running. I wondered what type of animal he’d be if I wrote a children’s book about him …
Not a spider, that’s for sure. A lion? A panther?
Something strong. Something fast. What? A stallion?
That was so cheesy it made me laugh. I stared down the street trying to picture an animal version of Nick running toward the lamppost.
All I could see was Nick with his bare chest and his ripped arms and that intense look on his face, coming straight for me.
It was a perfect image and I felt myself kind of sinking into it, floating off into another daydream. Nick breaks into a big white smile when he sees me. He kisses me and he’s all sweaty and short of breath but I don’t care. Maybe I’m in my running gear too. I’m going to run the rest of the way with him like I used to do when we were first going out and he didn’t complain about slowing down a little so we could talk along the way. Maybe afterwards we could borrow his dad’s car and head out to St. Margaret’s Bay for a sail before …
I woke up. How long before Nick actually got here? I looked around. What time was it? I never knew the time any more since I stopped using a cell phone.
It didn’t matter. The bench was within sight. I’d be there in a second, then I could relax.
Relax?
I shook my head and started walking across the field. It was weird to think that Nick could be right there—so close—and I’d be relaxing. I remembered the first time we just hung out and watched television together, him with his arm over the back of the sofa, me snuggled up against him, ducking when he reached for the chips, slapping him when he got crumbs down my shirt.
I remembered how thrilled I’d been then to realize— what? That I was no longer thrilled. That there were no wild heart palpitations any more. No what-should-I-do-now weirdness. It was how I’d known we were a real couple.
You make the perfect couple. Everyone had said that.
I looked over at the bench and wondered if the fact that I could relax now meant I was almost ready to make my move, go for it.
Or should I say him?
My basketball coach always said she could count on me to put the push on when things got tough. This would be tough, but that sort of made me happy.
“Betsy!”
I jumped. Who’d be calling for me now? It was like someone poured a bucket of embarrassment over my head. I didn’t want anyone seeing me yet. I picked up speed.
“Bets-eeeee! For Chrissakes.”
Dolores. I closed my eyes and let my head slump back. It was only Dolores. I laughed. I turned around and started walking toward her.
“What’s up?”
She stopped running and caught her breath. She was gasping like a contestant on The Biggest Loser. The little tendrils hanging below her pigtails were dark green with sweat and her face was pink. It wasn’t a good combo.
I was going to make some crack about it but before I could, she said, “Geez. Would you mind exiting the Paleolithic era and getting yourself a cell phone? Seriously. You practically killed me.”
“I had a cell phone. I just don’t want to use one any more.”
Dolores was checking to see if her pits smelled. She dropped her right arm in disgust—clearly at me, not herself. “What’s the matter with you? What am I supposed to do when I need to reach you? Send smoke signals? Build an inukshuk? Leave a message with that hopeless brother of yours? What?”
I didn’t want to get into that and I was pretty sure she knew why I didn’t use a cell phone anyway. “You have some important message for me or something?”
“Obviously. Believe me, I don’t run for my health.”
Run.
I suddenly remembered Nick. He could be here any second.
Panic fizzed up inside me. I’d left the Burtons’ at, what?—2:15? 2:20? It was Friday. I knew Nick. He’d be here at 2:30, not a minute later. What time was it? My heart started ticking like an angry clock.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you want? Just tell me.”
“Ooh. Crabby.” Dolores had taken an old silver compact out of her plastic bag and was patting at her face with a powder puff. “Gotta ask me nice or I’m not telling.” She bared her teeth at the mirror and checked for lipstick smudges.
I didn’t have time for this. Nick could be coming down the street behind me right this second. I wasn’t ready. That couldn’t happen. I wasn’t me yet.
“Look. I’ve got stuff to do, Dolores. Would you just tell me what you want?”
She snapped her compact shut and put her hand on her hip.
“Who died and made you Tyra Banks? You have no right to talk to me like that. Frankly, I’m the one who organizes all this stuff, gets all the clients, makes things happen. If you had a cell phone, I wouldn’t have to give myself a coronary trying to catch up with you. The least you can do is be halfway polite.”
“Oh. Like you’re polite.” I could have kicked myself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just, I don’t know, tired or something.” I smiled and tried to brighten my eyes. “So what was it you wanted?”
“Thank you. You really are so lovely when you smile.” Dolores gazed at me in a totally phony way. “So. Okay. I just wanted to tell you there’s been a change in plans. It’s not the Oreskoviches’ on Monday. Christine phoned and asked if we could go Wednesday instead because …”
I didn’t hear what Dolores said after that. All I heard was Nick’s war cry. We were standing three metres away from the lamppost. His finish line. Its shadow came over my shoulder and cut Dolores in half.
I was trapped. It was too late to run. There was nowhere to go. If he hadn’t spotted me yet, he would, and then I would die.
I would die in my dirty old pink T-shirt and greasy hair.
Dolores was saying something about the Rau-Chaplins and their mudroom. I was trying to nod or at least not cry. I was tensing all my muscles, my brain, my heart, but I couldn’t stop myself from shaking. It was like waiting for the firing squad to shoot.
And then, suddenly, on top of everything, Dolores was jumping up and down, all excited about something. What was she saying? Why was she talking so loud? Could she possibly make this any worse?
If I’d had any motor control at all, I would have kicked her, but I couldn’t. I had to just stand there waiting for the guns to go off.
“You’re kidding! He’s taking you to New York?”
I could hear Nick doing stretches behind me, panting. My skin had gone pebbly with goosebumps. My ears were ringing. Had he noticed me yet? Had he even looked?
“Your parents will crap! Seriously. Do they know he’s twenty-five?”
Dolores was looking straight at me, making all these exaggerated expressions. She was like a host on a preschool program, acting out the word surprised.
“You mean, they don’t care? J
ust because he’s a surgeon? Or because he’s so rich?”
Dolores took me by the arm. “Yeah. You’re right. We better get going. You’ve got to do your hair, get out of your costume and be at the airport by six.”
She dragged me away. I felt like Frankenstein or the Tin Man or a Nazi soldier or something. My knees wouldn’t bend. Dolores just kept babbling and pulling anyway.
I should have just gone with it, made my escape while I had the chance, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned my head the tiniest bit. I had to look.
“Betsy?” Nick’s eyes narrowed and he stopped wiping the sweat off his neck. His arm just kind of hovered in front of him like he was paralyzed. Like the sight of me had paralyzed him.
“Take a picture, why don’t you, asshole,” Dolores said, and tugged at my arm. “You know that guy? What a jerk.”
Nick didn’t say anything more.
He didn’t need to.
Chapter 21
Dolores led me away like a bomb victim. I was a bomb victim. Everything around me had exploded. It was as if big shards of hope were lodged in my chest and behind my eyes. My heart had ruptured. My brain had stopped. I was in shock, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before the pain kicked in.
“Douchebag,” Dolores said once we were back on the main street. “Didn’t I tell you? Like who does that guy think he is? Seriously. And what’s with the Chippendale dancer workout gear? You can’t tell me that Nick My-Dad’s-a-Big-Developer Jamieson can’t afford a T-shirt.” She shook her head. “He’s got funny nipples. Ever notice that?”
Dolores looked at me as if she was waiting for a laugh. As if this was all some hilarious joke. It wasn’t, and I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry either, but again that was just the shock.
We walked in silence for a while. Dolores filled the dead air by conspicuously wiping the sweat off her neck and rooting around in her plastic bag for clip-on sunglasses.
“Some hot out, eh?” This was a joke too, apparently. The goofball accent must have been the funny part.
She stopped and threw her hands out to her sides like a maestro about to conduct an orchestra. “Hey! I just had an idea. Why don’t we go for a swim? Seriously. Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”