“Does that make me Lady?” I said. “You know, from that Disney movie?”
“Yes,” he said. “You are a beautiful cocker spaniel and I am a mutt.”
He put his hand on my hip. I hated myself for sucking in. I thought I was over that.
I said, “Did you know that Peggy Lee was the voice of Lady’s owner?”
He inched closer. “Who’s Peggy Lee?”
I sucked in more.
“A singer.”
The lyrics to “I’m a Woman” ran through my head. Peggy could clean the house, feed the baby, fix the car, go swingin’ till four, sleep at five, wake at six, and do it all over again. There was nothing she couldn’t do because she was a W-O-M-A-N.
And here I was, putting my internal organs at risk because of some guy.
I breathed out. “We should do the spaghetti thing sometime.”
“That ends with a kiss, you know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
I cuddled into him. “You know, I always wondered why the Tramp called Lady ‘Pidge.’”
“It’s a term of endearment,” he said. “Short for pigeon.”
He closed his eyes. I was tempted to stay the night but I had my one o’clock curfew to think of.
I closed my eyes, just for a minute.
I was woken by a rustling. “What’s going on?”
“Lewis is taking Miracle home,” said Buck. “Her mother’s tricks will be gone by now.”
Tricks?
Miracle’s mother sells herself. I was sinking through concrete, every part of me. I wrapped my arms around Buck’s waist.
“You okay, love?”
All was quiet, except for the trickling of the river. I looked at the time on my phone. It was 12:45. I was going to be late. “I should go home now.”
He offered me his cheek. I kissed him on the lips.
He smiled. “Goodbye, Pidge.”
* * *
Except for a few passing cars, the streets were quiet. I walked through the downtown core, then followed the tracks back toward home. I was surprised to see Lewis coming out of one of the pathways that led to my neighborhood. He looked surprised to see me, too.
“Buck didn’t walk with you?”
“Why would he?” I said. “It wasn’t far.”
He looked unimpressed. “Still.”
I sighed. “Being female doesn’t make me a delicate little flower, you know.”
He smiled. “I think it’s safer to walk in pairs, that’s all.”
We walked side by side up the path.
“I didn’t know Miracle lived around here.”
He nodded. “She’s over on Victoria.”
“Oooh!” I said. “She lives in a Victory house too!”
I proceeded to give him a history lesson on Canadian wartime houses. I said, “Victory homes were built to house factory workers and soldiers returning from war. They were supposed to be temporary, but the neighborhoods became so strong they lasted long after the war.” I wrapped up with “Pretty cool, huh?” to which he replied, “He’s older than you, you know.”
I knew who he was talking about and wondered why he cared. “So?”
“He’s twenty.”
I shrugged. “As my mother says, age is not important unless you’re a cheese.”
He snorted. “Yeah, well, Buck’s a big hunk of old British cheddar.”
I laughed. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“I barely know him. He showed up a few months ago, said he was just passing through.”
“Well, I happen to like British cheddar,” I said. “It’s got a real zing.”
“I prefer Canadian,” said Lewis. “It’s smoother and more well-rounded. You should give it a try sometime.”
I stole a sideways glance at him. He had broad shoulders and a muscly chest. On his left arm was a black armband tattoo. He caught me looking at it.
“In memory of my mom. She died when I was five.”
“I’m sorry.”
“This, on the other hand,” he said, “is just for fun.”
A miniature Pinocchio stood proudly on the inside of his wrist.
“‘Now, remember, Pinocchio,’” I said, quoting the Blue Fairy. “‘Be a good boy and always let your conscience be your guide.’”
Lewis smiled. “Always.”
At the bottom of Churchill I said, “Well, thanks for walking me—I mean, thanks for accompanying me.”
He smiled. “No problem.”
Cam was in the driveway, hiding in the shadows. “We’re twenty minutes late.”
“The house is dark,” I said. “They’ll never know.”
We climbed the stairs together. On the landing he said, “Oh, Poppy. I just noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
He reached up, touched my bandana.
I didn’t mean to get his hopes up.
“I only wore it so I could tell a little girl about Rosie the Riveter.”
“The little girl in the polka-dot socks?”
I nodded.
“And did you?”
I shook my head. “She never asked.”
He looked at me with curiosity. “Where were you tonight, Pops?”
I slid the bandana off my head. “I was in another world.”
He frowned. “Are you high?”
“Pfssh. No.”
I went to bed. A few minutes later Cam crept in. I didn’t have to ask what he wanted. He was going to create a cross-breeze—he always did on particularly sticky nights. He’d open his window, then mine, and leave the doors open in between.
He crossed the room to the small sash window I always had difficulty opening. It was easy for him. He was as lean as Buck but as strong as Lewis. Another reason I wished he’d get back into boxing. It’s like they say, use it or lose it. I didn’t want Cam to lose it. I wanted him to be strong forever.
When Cam left the room I closed my eyes and pictured the words Chapter One. I wanted to relive my night under the bridge but the page was out of focus. As I drifted off, a warm summer breeze floated in through my window, lifting the letters off the page.
* * *
In the morning Cam was sitting at his vanity, plucking his eyebrows.
I sat on his bed and talked to his reflection. “So. How was your night with the Drome-drearies?”
“Awesome. Now enough about me. Spill.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’d swear I’d never had a night out before.”
“You haven’t,” he said. “Well, not in the last six months anyway.”
“By the way,” I said, “I borrowed your lipstick. The Chanel Allure.”
He paused his plucking and looked me in the eye. “What’s with the procrastination, Pops? Did you rob a bank or something?”
“Pfssh. No.”
“So where were you last night?”
“I was just, you know, hanging out…under the Fifth Street bridge.”
“Ew, Pops. Why?”
“The little girl with the polka-dot socks, she invited me. There’s this one guy, Buck, and—”
“Buck? Sounds like a hillbilly.”
“Pfssh. Far from it. He’s…British.”
Cam’s eyes lit up.
“Really? England, Ireland, Scotland, or Wales?”
“England.”
“Oooh. Does he say, All right, guv’nor? ’Ow’s yer fatha?”
“He’s not the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins.”
“Does he say gobsmacked? Love that word.”
“No. But he says brilliant like brill-e-ant and when he called me darling he said it without the g.”
Cam tried it out.
“’Allo, darlin’. ’Ow ’bout we go for a pint o’ lager down at the ol’ Bangers and Mash.”
I laughed. “What the hell, Cam?”
“The pubs over there always have names like that,” he said. “The Fox and the Hound. The Lady and the Tramp.”
“Oooh,” I said. “The Lady and the Tramp—that’s kind of our t
hing.”
“Thing?” he said. “How can you have a thing? You’ve only known him five minutes.”
I grinned. “He kissed me.”
It was the other way round but Cam didn’t need to know that.
“You should see his hair,” I said. “It’s this big wavy mop that’s streaked with a bunch of shades of blond. He runs his fingers through it to keep it out of his face and it goes all swoopy on the top.”
Cam swooned. “Sounds amazing. Would he happen to have a gay twin brother?”
I kept going. “He looks like one of those models from that clothing brand that you like.”
“Burberry? Jesus, Poppy. Why don’t you just stab me to death with my tweezers? Here, take them. Kill me now.”
I laughed. “I think I really like him.”
Cam stood up. “I’m happy for you, Pops.”
He pulled on a dress shirt and grinned. “And you can be happy for me when I get this job.”
I smiled. “You have an interview?”
“Yup,” he said. “At Bliss.”
“The hair salon?”
I must have looked like there was a stink under my nose because Cam sighed and said, “What’s the problem, Pops?”
I shrugged. “I thought you didn’t want a summer job.”
“I didn’t,” he said, “but then I met the owner of Bliss at Starbucks. He came over to my table to tell me I had great hair. He is so nice. He said he was looking for an assistant—you know, someone to sweep hair and stuff.”
I snorted. “You? Sweep hair?”
“If you must know,” he said, “it’s an entry-level position. Eventually, I can move up.”
“To what?” I said. “You want to be a hairdresser now?”
He pulled a tie out of his closet. “You know, Poppy. Sometimes I don’t feel totally supported by you.”
“Don’t say that, Cam.”
I stood up, helped him with his collar. “All I want is for you to be happy.”
He looked me in the eye. “I am happy.”
I forced a smile. “Good.”
I watched him tie the tie the way Dad taught him, with the fox chasing the rabbit, around the tree and down the hole.
He put on some bronzer and fixed his hair.
My sweet Cam. I was glad he thought he was happy.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be happier working at the boxing club.
Maybe I’ll mention it later, I thought. When he’s not so touchy.
* * *
I went to my room and watched a montage of swing dancers during the big-band era. I pictured myself doing the Lindy Hop with Buck.
I wondered why he was homeless. It seemed rude to ask.
I googled homelessness in the forties. Between 1939 and 1945 people were able to escape the streets by going to war. It really was the best of times.
I pictured Buck in uniform signing up for active duty. Thumper would be too old. Then again, he liked living rough. That, I’d never understand.
I was about to google prostitution in the forties but then I remembered it was the world’s oldest profession. I wondered why Miracle’s mother didn’t just get a job at McDonald’s or Tim Hortons. Or apply for the lunchtime gig at Chen Chicken. Surely anything was better than selling your body for money.
I visited ISeeFatPeople. Someone had posted a photo of an overweight person on a train with the caption Ham on a train, taking up all my leg space.
I wondered where the “ham” was going. Maybe they were going to work. Or the movies.
Their obliviousness made my heart ache.
I thought about Buck. Even if we fell in love and had a wild summer romance, there’d still be injustice in the world.
Maybe I should just let him take me away from it all. It’s like he said, it’s only a bit of weed.
CHAPTER THREE
I ate a handful of Honeycombs for breakfast and headed down to the bridge. Thumper’s brow was furrowed but he smiled when he saw me. I sat beside him. “Your arse-ritis?”
He laughed. “Yes. And I’m fresh out of ass-pirin.”
I looked around. “Where is everyone?”
“Lewis leaves first thing,” he said. “And Buck is gone to get Miracle. She likes to have breakfast with us.”
He rubbed his joints to ease the pain. They were fat and swollen—not only the knuckles but the smaller joints near his fingertips.
“I’m sorry if I seemed judgmental last night,” I said. “I didn’t think people would want to be homeless by choice.”
“Don’t worry, Poppy. We’re all different. It’d be a boring world if we weren’t.”
He switched from rubbing his left hand with his right to rubbing his right hand with his left. One knobbly hand trying to soothe the other. It was as fruitless as putting out fire with fire.
“Different is overrated,” I said. “If people were all the same, with the same values and beliefs, they wouldn’t hurt each other. There probably wouldn’t even be wars.”
His face filled with concern.
“The world is good, Poppy. It’s not perfect, but it’s good.”
His leather satchel was between us on his blanket. I ran my fingers across it. “Thumper? Is it okay to be gay in your bible?”
“Of course it is,” he said.
It was weird how relieved I felt.
“Sometimes I watch things I shouldn’t,” I said. “I saw a video once of a gay kid being lured to an apartment, only to be beaten.”
His concern turned to sadness. “You shouldn’t watch things like that.”
“I know,” I said. “But if I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t know, and if I didn’t know, I’d be living in a bubble.”
“I lived in a bubble once,” he said. “With a bunch of hippies down in Arizona.”
I laughed. “Sounds great. But the problem with bubbles is, they tend to pop.”
“Not this one,” he said. “It was made of a very durable plastic.”
He grinned at me and I grinned back.
I reached over and took his hand. “Let me try.”
I worked my way up each finger, gently rubbing each joint.
“How long have you been living down here?” I asked.
“Eight months,” he said. “There were twenty of us here once.”
“I saw this documentary,” I said, “about a homeless camp under an expressway. People stole each other’s stuff and one of the women got sexually assaulted.”
He shook his head. “I think you need to change your viewing habits. Why don’t you try, I don’t know, Looney Tunes?”
I did my best Porky Pig impression. “‘Th-th-th-thatha-tha-that’s all, folks!’”
When Thumper laughed his eyes twinkled like the ocean.
I switched to his other hand.
He nodded to a margarine container. “By the way,” he said, “that’s our snub tub…if you find yourself needing to say sorry again.”
Knowing me, I probably would.
“How much do people usually put in?” I asked.
“We don’t add money,” he said. “We add words, things we should have said instead.”
I picked up the tub. “Do you think I can add something now?”
“Of course,” he said. “You’ll find a pencil and paper inside.”
I opened the lid. The tub was filled with slips of paper. There was one on the top that read:
“I’ve met a lot of people in my travels,” said Thumper, “and not everyone sees eye to eye. That tub has solved many a problem and made forever friends out of potential enemies.”
I wrote my message with a tiny pencil and slipped it into the bottom of the tub.
I put the lid on and looked around.
“It is nice down here,” I said. “Even if there are no walls.”
“It’s nice down here,” he said, “because there are no walls.”
I was about to tell him about the house in the suburbs when Buck and Miracle rounded the corner.
�
��Mama made breakfast,” said Miracle.
Buck looked surprised, and happy, to see me. “Good morning, Pidge.”
I moved with Buck to his sleeping area, where we ate warm blueberry muffins.
When we were done he said, “Want a tour of the city?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
He pulled a camera out of the messenger bag he never seemed to be without. “You haven’t seen it the way I do.”
Powerful images appeared on his display screen. One in particular was striking. He’d caught a woman smoking a cigarette mid-puff. Her cheeks were sucked inward. Her eyes were wide but thoughtful.
“How do you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Make stuff beautiful.”
He said it like it was obvious. “Truth is beautiful.”
He left out the t. Beau’iful.
He clicked to the next image. A girl of about six, a face full of joy, as if what she was kicking down the alley was a soccer ball, not a beer can. I could almost hear the rattle of metal against pavement.
He continued scrolling. The photos were breathtaking and stark. Some were haunting.
Buck looked from his camera to me. “You’ve gone quiet.”
I wanted to share my pain with him.
“I was in a photo once.”
Wrinkles formed across his forehead. “What kind of photo?”
I took out my phone, showed him the original.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “You look as fit as a butcher’s dog.”
I laughed. “Is that good?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Very.”
I shoved the phone back in my pocket. “I thought I looked good too.”
“You don’t anymore?”
Suddenly, I didn’t feel like talking.
Buck put his hand under my chin, directed my face toward his. “Come on, love. You can tell me.”
It hurt to think of, let alone say out loud.
“Someone posted it on a subreddit,” I said. “But they…”
He took my hand. “They what?”
“They photoshopped a hamburger in my fist.”
A smile spread slowly across his lips.
“It’s not funny,” I said.
He smirked. “It kind of is.”
I stood up. “Goodbye, Buck.”
Chicken Girl Page 4