by Sam Wiebe
Manolis didn’t correct his grandmother. He ate his eggs quietly, and kissed both her cheeks, and shuffled out the door, one foot dragging, and got the hell out of that apartment before sunrise, before his grandfather woke up.
Survivors’ Pension
by S.G. Wong
Victoria-Fraserview
They’re waiting for me as I leave the cemetery.
The hefty one gives a slight bow of the head, then grabs me by the elbow. His friend, tall, slender as a reed, gives our surroundings a quick assessment. My heart races. I know everyone else is gone. The open grave awaits the digger, the massive backhoe parked ten feet away, on the paved path.
“You were a good friend to Mrs. Lin. We saw the happy photos on her phone,” says the hefty one, gaze flat. “She pointed you out to us.”
“Before she died.” The reedy one has a deep voice, like a bass singer.
“I don’t know what . . .” I try quavery puzzlement.
“Skip the theatrics.” The hefty one twists my fleshy arm in his hold until I hiss. “She told us about your insurance scam.”
I bite down on my tongue, taste blood.
“And your ghost.” His breath smells like cigarettes and something overly sweet, Coke maybe. “We’re gonna take over the scam, then we’re gonna take the ghost.”
“You can’t just—”
He tugs me toward the mausoleum, his companion close behind. I have a hard time keeping up. The reedy one slides past me, opens the door, checks for bystanders. His shoes squeak on the marble floor.
The hefty one shoves my shoulder, rotating me sideways as I stumble over the threshold. My face collides with the doorframe. I feel a splintering pain in my left eye, a vertical line of agony. My sharp cry echoes across two floors of empty, dead space.
I shake my head, wince at the resulting throb from my eye. “Whatever Stella told you, the scam’s over. Everyone’s gone.”
The hefty one flicks his hand. I reel from the slap. “You’re not,” he says.
His partner looms inches from my face. “Heal it. Show us the goods.”
Damn it. Damn Stella and her big mouth to the eighteen hells.
The big one pushes his thumb against the top of my left cheek. I smell earth and copper on his meaty hand. “Do it, old woman, or I break a bone.”
No good choices. “Just . . . gimme some air, all right? I can’t work with you breathing in my face.”
I back up against the wall. The two brace themselves, bouncing on the balls of their feet. I want to laugh. Like I’m going to fight.
I stare across the foyer, at the wall of rectangular brass placards fronting niches full of urns and ashes. I breath in deep, focus my mind on the area around my left eye, sensing its wrongness. I hold that feeling and reach outward, to the ether. Its energy fills the spaces in and around us, invisible and indispensable. I direct a thin band of it inward, to my bruised face, until the wrongness dissipates. Slowly, the pain fades and disappears.
The reedy one’s staring at me, avid. “So that’s how it works.”
Shit. He could see it.
“It’s just guesswork far as I’ve managed.” I mask my curiosity. He might be one of the touchy ones, sensitive about a diluted talent. Me, I been called lucky, among other things. I can do the most minor of healing. Others can do inconsequential spells. Some just aren’t good for anything but seeing ghosts.
Wait a minute. I say, “You saw it, how it was done? You don’t need me then?”
The reedy one crowds me. “Nhuh-uh. Ain’t got enough talent for that.”
His partner chuckles darkly. “Old woman, you’re gonna be a gold mine.” He grabs me by the back of the neck, pinching up the loose skin there, between his palm and fingers. “Mrs. Lin said you’re the brains of the operation. So tell us how it worked, this scam a yours.” He squeezes.
I yelp. Is this how they got Stella to talk?
I lick my chapped lips. “The girls find a good corner, look for morons driving and on their phones. When they judge it right, they pick someone turning the corner. Slow enough not to risk death, but fast enough to startle the driver. Then they step in the way, get clipped.” I swallow. “We’re old, we have no extra health coverage. We claim against their insurance. We use the physio on Victoria and 46th. She’s a heavy gambler, needs the extra money. She bills up to three treatments a week, for maybe two months. No one’s gonna look too closely ’cause everyone knows seniors take longer to heal. She does the fake paperwork, creates fake appointments. I do my thing. We split the money.”
“So,” says the reedy one, “you can heal anything?”
I push away thoughts of Stella. “I can’t do broken bones, all right? No healer can, without a doctor to reset first, and no way we’re involving a doctor too. But cuts, bruising, sprains, strained muscles, those I can do. Just no head injuries.”
“What’s the split on the take?” The big man twists the hand holding my neck.
I wince. “Seventy-thirty.”
“Mrs. Lin said sixty-forty.”
“That’s how I split the seventy from the physio with her, yeah.”
He stares at me. “How much you take in a week?”
“Each girl got maybe a hundred, a hundred and fifty a week.” I have a fleeting image of my old friends, hearing me call them girls. It hurts.
The reedy one glares. “Chump change.”
“It’s enough for pin money, okay? We only got old age pensions otherwise, and they don’t stretch far. Not in this city.”
His partner shakes me by the scruff of my neck. “How many in a day?”
I gasp. “Not every day. The physio can only claim three sessions a week. Per patient. Too suspicious otherwise.”
He’s scowling. I don’t know if it’s the math or he’s trying to be intimidating.
“Also, I can’t heal that many so quickly. Mine’s a small talent.” The back of my neck’s gone numb. “Can you let go now? I’m cooperating, all right?”
The hefty one releases me, with an extra shove to prove his point.
I rub my neck. It stings. Then I rub my nose, hard. Can’t get his scent out.
He points a stubby finger at me. “That means you’re making up to $450 a week, old woman. That’s more than just pocket money.”
“Yeah, well, I was. It’s over now. Like I told you. Mabel and Mary and June, they were the oldest ones. They died over the past six months. Betty and Liza moved away. It was just Stella and me the past two months.”
“And you went and got her killed,” says the reedy one.
“It was an accident,” I counter hotly. “She miscalculated. It was raining too hard and she slipped.”
“Got her head bashed in.” The hefty one waves a hand. “Yeah, we saw her in the hospital. We know.”
“How?” I narrow my eyes. “How do you know her anyway?”
“She’s my great-aunt,” he says. “Was, I guess.”
I feel sick.
He pokes me on the collarbone. “You’re gonna run the scam again. ’Cept this time, we get the money.”
I scowl, rubbing the sore spot. “Why should I? You gonna hurt me more if I don’t? Go ahead. I can heal it. The rest is just pain. You break bones, it takes me time to heal normal, your gold mine’s out of commission. You kill me, you get nothing.”
“You got a son, a daughter-in-law, grandkids.” The reedy one pokes my forehead, his fingernail breaking the skin.
I heal the shallow cut as he watches, lay on the bravado. “No way am I gonna do this for free.”
They exchange a look, surprise clear on their hard faces.
I barrel onward: “You find six old women. No men, too whiny. Three accidents a week, they switch off weeks. Different neighborhoods. The physio’s split stays the same. We can’t afford to squeeze her. We split the 70 percent.” I run the calculations. “If you pay your seniors 25 percent, you still get 225 a week.”
“Chump change.” The reedy one shrugs. “But easy money.”
&
nbsp; Stella’s great-nephew is squinting at me. Clearly the smarter one. I keep my eye on him.
“I deal with the physio,” I say. “If she gets wind of you, she’ll fold.” I make a face. “Took me months to suss her out. No time to find another.”
He gives a short nod. “Got just the place for the money drop. Ming Dynasty on Victoria at 41st. That’s, what, five blocks from your son’s house?”
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. “You trust them to hold your money?”
“They know what happens if they don’t.” He reaches out. I cringe. He taps my forehead. “Soon as it’s set up nice and smooth, we get the ghost. Got a spell caster ready to pull it into a nice little containment trap.”
I frown. “What are you going to do with him?”
“None of your business.”
“But it could kill me.” The quavery note’s not fake this time. “Or turn me into a vegetable, as good as dead.”
“Not our problem.”
I narrow my eyes, thinking frantically. “If I come out of it normal, I want a cut of whatever you’re gonna do. It must be a decent payoff, right?”
Stella’s great-nephew shoves me. “Get this straight, old woman. You may be smart enough to run some penny-ante scam, but I’m out of your league.” He pokes a finger into my collarbone, twists it hard. I swear I can feel the bruise forming.
He grabs my purse, finds my phone, thrusts it at me. “Unlock it.”
I do, watching my hand shake.
He takes it back, taps the screen. A low buzz from his pocket. “We’ll be in touch. You better pick up or text me back, old woman.”
The reedy one snatches my purse from his partner, pulls out my wallet, empties it of cash. He drops the wallet and purse onto the floor. They land with a thud, the metal purse clasp clinking against the tiles.
I watch them as they push through the doors, back out into the early-winter drizzle. I crumple against the door as soon as they peel out of the parking lot, in some low, mean-looking muscle car.
I’m spent, panting like a dumb dog. Pain flares in knees, shoulders, elbows, wrists. Of course. What else is new.
I crouch laboriously and gather my belongings, cursing my useless magic. Can’t even heal my own damned chronic pain. I stuff things inside my purse, sling it over my head and crosswise over my chest, brace against the wall to stand.
At least they left me my Compass pass.
I hobble four blocks west to the SkyTrain station. I sweat and sway with the movement of the train, thinking, thinking, thinking. Bus ride’s no different. When I get home, Lauren’s already there. She gasps when she sees me.
“Lai-lai, are you all right? Did you overexert yourself again? You look exhausted. Why didn’t you call me to come get you? You know I’m done work by two.”
As always, she manages to be accusatory and patronizing even while being solicitous. If she weren’t so obviously gwai, with her red hair and green eyes, and her atrocious Cantonese, I’d swear she was Chinese.
I wave her off. “I’m fine. Where are the boys?”
“They’re playing at Adrian’s. I was just leaving to get them. I’ll settle you upstairs first, though.” She takes a gentle hold on my shoulders.
I stop, twitching her hands off. “No, no. I’m slow. Take too long to go up.” I make a shooing motion. “The boys’re waiting. I rest in my room. See them soon.”
“All right. No rush though, okay? We’ll be back in about an hour.” The front door closes with a solid thud as she leaves.
Instead of the stairs, I move to the rec room and stand at the window, just to the side, lifting away the edge of the blinds to peer out. I watch her walk under her gaudy flowered umbrella, those huge masculine strides of hers eating up the sidewalk.
It takes me forever to climb the stairs, clutching the railing, huffing and hissing through the effort. No Chinese designed these old seventies Vancouver Specials, that’s for damn sure. They’re clearly not for people who live with aging parents. There are stairs everywhere, long ones. I’m out of breath by the top, need a glass of water and a sit to calm my heart.
I worry at my situation some more.
Four hundred and fifty bucks a week is a decent take, sure. Multiply by three and now we’re talking a serious game. Three concurrent scams, eighteen girls, 1,300 a week. That was worth my time. I could’ve continued at least another year, but truth is, after Stella’s death, urgency’s been hammering at me. So I shut down all the scams. If any of the others can find another crooked, half-assed healer, they’re welcome to her.
I’m counting on the two thugs not having a stable of larcenous seniors at the ready, but who knows. I suppose they have family too. Still, it’s gotta take them at least a couple days to get six old women, still mobile and game enough for our purposes.
Not that I have any intention of going through with it.
But it gives me a few days to sort things out. Damned if I’m letting them get anywhere near my ghost. That dead husband of mine tricked me into this, sure, but I got my own plans to be done with him.
And it’s not fear that’s keeping me from freedom. It’s money—what else. I just needed a few more weeks from Stella. I have a monk, ready to cut the magical tether to my parasite. All that swindled cash put toward my retirement, budgeted to the cent, and I’m a thousand dollars short of the monk’s fee.
I’m this close.
I grind my teeth, itching to break something. Damn Stella for getting greedy. She shouldn’t have demanded a larger cut. She should’ve had a handle on her gambling. What was she thinking, arguing with me in broad daylight? Threatening to expose the whole goddamned thing, as if anyone’d believe her. She should never have slapped me. What did she expect? Of course I was gonna push her away.
But I never meant for her to fall into traffic. That was the rain and a slippery curb. That wasn’t me.
I rub my gritty eyes. Things are quickly accelerating out of my control. Gotta handle the things I can.
* * *
Used to be, when I first came to Vancouver as a young woman, you’d have to actually go to Chinatown to get decent groceries. These days, I’m only a ten-minute walk away. We’ve our own little community, along Victoria from 41st to 49th. The fishmonger’s got as fresh as anyone in Chinatown and he’s not a forty-minute bus ride away. The cheapie salon across the street from him cuts my hair for thirteen bucks. There’s barbecue on the corner, fresh produce at two different stores, and a musty dollar store rip-off too. We have an apothecary when we want herbal remedies, and a London Drugs when we want the other stuff. It’s not glamourous. The sidewalks are always grimy and spotted with crushed gum and wet gobs of spittle; the air smells like bus exhaust; the rain never washes anything clean—but it’s home.
Joint pain or no, I make that walk every day. It’s something to do with the long hours and it’s good to get my grandsons out of the house. They’re four years old, twins. Happy and rambunctious, dark of hair and light of eye. They take turns pulling our small, wheeled shopping cart. I’m sure we’re adorable. I’m going to miss seeing them and caring for them when I’m out of the house. They start kindergarten in the fall.
“Are we going yum-cha, Mah-mah?” Ewan is always hungry.
“After we visit Brother Wing.” I hurry them along. “We have a bus to catch first.” That gets them running. Austen falls and skins his hands. He brushes himself off, matter-of-fact, not a tear in sight. That’s my boy.
Life is pain, I tell them. Best get used to it and move on.
I let Austen beep my Compass pass on the reader as we board. It’s a twenty-five-minute bus ride west on 41st, into the leafy streets of Kerrisdale. Wing’s house is a half-block from the stop. The twins point at the tree on the corner.
“A monkey puzzle tree,” I say. They giggle.
Brother Wing’s house is small. I imagine it must be worth millions. I climb the outside steps to the front door, the twins scampering up and down twice before I’m done. Wing welcomes us inside.
I’m surprised at how bright and airy it is.
Wing isn’t actually a monk. He left the temple years ago, but it’s a harmless honorific and it makes him feel better. I need him to feel good.
I settle the twins on the plump sofa in the front room, sharing their old froggy-shaped electronic reader toy.
Wing looks awkward, ushering me across the narrow hall to a smaller reception room. “I wasn’t expecting you to bring your grandchildren. I can’t perform the dissolution ceremony with them here.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I had to talk to you, but I care for them while my son and daughter-in-law work.” I pause, settle my nerves. “Something’s come up. I need to have it done tomorrow.”
He looks at me, wary. His bald head gleams palely.
I pull a manila envelope from my bag, fat and crinkling. “I don’t have the full six thousand, but I have five, now. This is two thousand if you can do it tomorrow. I’ll bring the remaining three when I come back.”
Ewan shouts as the frog-reader beeps a saccharine-sweet song. I look over. Austen reaches over and pushes a sequence of buttons. The reader’s song cuts out abruptly. Ewan laughs.
I see Wing move in my peripheral vision, reaching for the envelope.
I pull it back. “You’re sure you can do it, right?”
Wing raises a brow, calm. “You came to me. I told you the odds.”
I realize I’m chewing on my lip. I straighten up, relax my jaw. “I just want to make sure. It’s a lot of money for a risky result.”
Wing sighs. “I’ve been up front about that from the start.”
I nod. “It’s just . . . I don’t know how the ether works. I only know how to use it.” My face tightens. “Barely.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” he says. “Healing’s not spell casting. I’ll be cutting the tether to your husband, simple enough. Since you’re only the secondary host, you should be all right. As should he.” Wing pauses. “That’s what you want, correct? You don’t want him permanently dispersed? Because that’s a different price. Much bigger risk to you and his main host.”
I think of her. Winnie. Frank’s American mistress. His host. “No, I don’t want to be responsible for that. I just want him to stop siphoning life energy from me.”