Few Kinds of Wrong

by Tina Chaulk

  “Like what you just told Jennifer.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. Lots of stuff.”

  “Ha. Good rebating skills, BJ. ‘Lots of stuff ’ really straightens that up for me.”

  “Like that the word is ‘debating,’ not ‘rebating.’ Like you get lots of words wrong.” BJ starts to wave her hands as she speaks. “It’s not cancer of the Eucharist that Mrs. Simon has, it’s cancer of the uterus; like an octopus has eight tentacles, not eight testicles; like—”

  “That’s not the same as what Michelle told me,” I join in. “Michelle can do something about those things. She can stop using the wrong words. I can’t do anything about what Nan did in the home.”

  BJ stares at me, blinking her eyes in an exaggerated way and I know she’s debating, not rebating, whether or not to say something. “You could buy her body suits that snap up in the crotch to make it harder to get her clothes off.” She blinks again. “And you know we’ve pointed out stuff Michelle says all the time but she never learns. So it’s exactly the same as what she said about your nan.”

  “I don’t say that much wrong,” Michelle says. “You make it sound like I’m an idiot. I’m a biologist.”

  “Yeah, you are, and a brilliant one at that. Book smart doesn’t mean everything though.”

  After a minute of silence at the table, Michelle turns to me and says, “My friend Sarah, at work, says BJ looks like she’s gaining weight.”

  “What? I’m not.”

  Michelle shrugs. “That’s what she said.”

  “Well, Sarah is one to talk, I know. She’s not exactly easy on the scales.”

  They continue to argue as I sip my Caesar. There’s comfort in their back and forth, in the loving bickering the three of us share. Like I imagine I’d have with sisters if I had them. Sometimes BJ, with her cutting remarks, crosses the line, but Michelle often doesn’t get it, and I usually give back as good or better than what BJ gives me. For a few minutes I don’t join in the fray. I just drink and watch, like an outsider, a voyeur with full access to listen to these people without having to participate.

  “Hello,” BJ says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “You’re thinking about Jamie, aren’t you? You’re lusting after him.” BJ smiles the way she always does when she’s said something she’s not sure she can get away with.

  “No. I hate him. I can barely stand to be in the same room as him. I’m not lusting after him. And I won’t. Ever.”

  “Okay, okay. No lusting after the sexiest man anywhere near your garage. Of course you don’t want to feel those strong arms around you,” BJ says.

  “No,” I say and slam down my napkin. Everyone looks at us and then the whispers and pointing start. Everyone who hadn’t already noticed now sees that BJ Brown is sitting with us. I try to ignore it and whisper to them, “Why do you think I’d want anything to do with him? Don’t you think he hurt me enough?”

  “Well,” BJ says while Michelle says nothing.

  “Damn it. You always think it’s my own fault, don’t you? Some friends you are.” I stand up to leave before I hit something or cry, my two responses to this kind of frustration. Michelle grabs my arm.

  “I have some really big news. Subject changed. Okay?”

  I hesitate. BJ mouths “I’m sorry,” and I sit down. The Caesar is just too good to leave it.

  “Well, what’s the news?” BJ asks.

  “I met someone,” she says with a smirk on her face.

  “I thought you said this was news,” I say.

  “Yeah. He’s new.”

  “Yes, but you met someone last week, and the week before, and the week before,” BJ says.

  “And the week before the week before, and the week before that, then two days before that,” I add.

  Michelle’s face is grim. “Well, I tried to change the subject for you. We can go back to Jamie if you’d like. Or I can tell you about the new guy.”

  “Tell us about him,” I say before BJ can open her mouth.

  And as Michelle starts to tell us about her new love, I once again find relief in the same old, same old.

  The next morning, I whisper out loud, asking God to create some kind of head-removal device so I can function a little without the gnawing pain in my skull. I normally don’t have hangovers if I just stick to one thing, usually rum, but yesterday started with Caesars and ended at nearly three in the morning with Jello shots. The time in between was filled with a wide assortment of shooters, fruity cocktails and beer. I think it was the beer that got me.

  Getting home is fuzzy. I try to remember anything past standing outside Shooter’s bar, shouting “BJ Brown is named for what she does best, baby. Step right up and try her out.” Poor BJ had to practically beat them off with a stick and that’s where I lost the timeline.

  I look around. No guy here. That’s good. Still in my clothes. Good, since that probably means I didn’t get sick on them on the way home. I have to call BJ and make sure she’s okay. And I need a bucket of water to drink. Everyone knows the cure for headaches is water.

  Sitting up in bed turns out to be a bad decision as I’m compelled by the sensation in the back of my throat to find something to get sick in. The bathroom is too far away, I know. This is happening. Now.

  There is nothing around. Nothing except the jeans lying on the floor next to my bed, and I grab them without thinking. With the legs balled up, it turns out to be a good container. In about five minutes my stomach feels better, my throat and mouth much worse. My jeans are a multicoloured, sour-smelling design. I run to the bathroom and lay them on the tile floor before I go out to the kitchen to get a garbage bag. No garbage bags.

  “Shit,” I say out loud. I turn to open the garbage can in the kitchen, but seeing the banana peel and potato chip bag hanging out over the side, I remember that I’ve needed garbage bags for a while now. I open the cabinet under the sink and find a nice sturdy, large shopping bag. Thank God for the Newfoundland Liquor Corporation and their thick plastic bags.

  Back in the bathroom I fill the bag with jeans and yuck while trying not to look. This doesn’t work and some stuff I’d rather not see spills out.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  I try to clean it up, also while not looking at it, and use almost a whole roll of toilet paper to do it. When I flush, the toilet starts to overflow with way too much toilet paper and puke. I sit on the floor and cry, at least until I hear the sound of water pouring onto the floor. Clogged toilets can be wept over; overflowing toilets must be dealt with. I grab the plunger, and in a few minutes, I’ve unclogged the drain and cleaned up the remaining mess with a bath towel, which joins my jeans in the liquor store bag. I have to get garbage bags. And a mop.

  I grab a shower after brushing my teeth for five minutes. Still tastes like crap inside there. I wipe enough steam away from the mirror to look at my face. My mom would tell me I look sick.

  I throw my towel in the hamper and go to my room to dry my hair.

  “You’re still a pleasure to wake up with, babe.” A voice stops me in my tracks.

  I don’t have to look. I’d know it anywhere. Still, I need to know why and how he is here, even where he is in the house. But I’m also naked so I run to my room, saying “no” with every step.

  “What are you doing here?” I yell, looking around for something clean to wear. Those were my last clean pair of jeans. I search in the laundry hamper and find a pair that looks reasonably clean.

  “You don’t remember?” Jamie shouts.

  I grab a t-shirt that says I couldn’t repair your brakes so I made your horn louder from my drawer and try again to remember anything. Nothing comes. Picking up the telephone on my bedside table, I dial BJ’s number.

  “Why is Jamie here?” I ask before she can finish her hello. “What? Jamie’s there?”

  “You don’t know either? I don’t remember anything.”

/>   “Not even the bouncer from Greensleeves who had to rescue me from the assholes you encouraged to ask me for blow-jobs?”

  “I’m really sorry, Beej. I’m such an idiot.”

  “Yes, you are but don’t be sorry. That bouncer has muscles in places I didn’t even know had muscles. Now, I’d like to get back to him, please.”

  “He’s there?”

  “Duh. How do you think I know about his muscles? Hey, maybe I wasn’t the only one who got lucky last night. Is Jamie dressed?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen him. Only heard his voice. Anyway, get back to the bouncer.”

  “Okay, but I want an email later with details about this Jamie thing. Or I’ll call you and bug the shit out of you.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I call Michelle but get her machine and hang up without leaving a message. Best she doesn’t know about this anyway.

  I don’t want to tell Jamie I don’t remember anything. I shut the bedroom door and hope he’ll go away. The sound of the blow dryer will drown out anything he might say, and even when my hair is dry I sit on the bed with the dryer pointing at the mirror. No need to rush out there to see Jamie. My makeup is in the bathroom so I need a way to get there. I don’t usually use much makeup, only on the weekends with the girls, but I must be the only mechanic who makes sure there is eyeliner and lipstick in her toolbox at all times. Those were always my staples. For the past few months I haven’t been wearing them much, but right now my face is so pale it could use a little outlining just to reinforce that it’s a face.

  I figure the best way to get my makeup is to make a dash for the bathroom — head down, straight ahead. Jamie will just think I’m getting sick again. Oh, God, Jamie heard me getting sick. He saw me walking around with a vomit-filled pair of jeans. And I’m worrying that he doesn’t see me without eyeliner.

  Ripping open the door to start my dash to the bathroom, I run face and eyes into Jamie with a thud. He topples backwards and only stops himself from hitting the floor by grabbing my shoulders. Now I’m face to face with Jamie, my eyes so close to his I can see the flecks of gold. Jamie steps back and pushes me away.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I was just going to check and make sure you were okay.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Two seconds in front of the mirror in the bathroom tells me eyeliner and lipstick are not going to help much, but I try anyway.

  “I have to go somewhere, Jamie,” I say through the door as I try to line my lips with a shaky hand. “So you’ll have to leave.”

  “You’re welcome.” He is right outside the door.

  “What?”

  “I come over when you call me at almost four in the morning, I let you cry on my shoulder, and I fight you off when you come onto me, and this is all the thanks I get. Great.”

  I don’t know how to begin processing this, let alone to decide which part of Jamie’s story to refute. I open the door.

  “Fought me off? I don’t think you remember that right.”

  “And you do? Do you remember anything? What did you say when you called me?”

  “That doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you didn’t fight me off and I have somewhere to go. Right now.”

  “You took off your shirt and almost had your bra off before I stopped you.”

  I don’t want him to be right, but he is here, and I must have let him in. He has no key. I let him stay here. I must have wanted him here, wanted to talk to him.

  “We had a good talk, Jen,” Jamie says. He reaches his hand out like he is going to touch my face but I step back. He puts his hand back down by his side. “I thought we straightened some things out.”

  “I have to go. I need to go into work for a bit. Tough job and I need to get it done before I go see Mom.”

  He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but closes it again. “Okay.”

  He puts his shoes on and I stand there. He straightens up. “But it changed last night. You kissed me again and I won’t let you forget it. You’ll forgive me one day.”

  “Forgive you for what? You’ve always said you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Not for that. For what you really hate me for.”

  “Goodbye, Jamie.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you soon.” And he is gone, leaving me and the truth alone in the house again.

  3

  THE AFTERNOON IS the usual. I pick up a large double, double for me and a medium with two cream for Mom at Tim Hortons and drive to the home I was literally born in.

  “Eager to get in the world,” Nan still says of me when she remembers who I am. Two weeks early and twenty minutes of labour.

  The house would look worn down if it wasn’t for Bryce, who helps out with the leaky faucets, paints the eaves and windowsills, and fixes the creaky step. Mom doesn’t even have to call him. He just shows up from time to time, tools in hand, and starts to fix some exterior problem he’s noticed as he drives by, then asks Mom if there’s anything else to be done inside. Mom once commented that the house looks better now than when Dad was alive.

  “That man will do anything for a home-cooked meal,” Mom says all the time, but I know she’s happy Bryce helps out. Even knowing he lives just down the street seems to comfort her. Any strange noises in the night and Bryce can be there in two minutes, one if he runs. I’d say there would have to be a burglar beating down her door in order for her to call him, but just the knowing is sometimes all we need to make us feel at ease.

  Getting out of my car, I wave to Mom’s next-door neighbour, Ray Chafe. The sky is threatening rain. You can smell the dampness in the air, but he’s mowing his lawn again even though he probably did it yesterday. He mows no matter what the weather, waters the lawn at the first sign of it not being saturated, fertilizes, limes, spreads manure on his lawn, even tried kelp once. They say fences make good neighbours, but I can guarantee that kelp and manure make for bad ones. Since his wife died, he’s gone onto mowing other people’s lawns and Mom’s is always manicured.

  The bungalow is yellow and white with a veranda and four steps in front. Purple and pink flowers hang in baskets along the front of the veranda. I’m pretty sure they’re real because Mom never puts them out until at least the second week of June. She swears that summer in Newfoundland doesn’t begin until that last frost in June and she’s usually right.

  I put Mom’s coffee on top of mine, freeing one hand to open the front door, trying not to knock off the flowery wreath hanging in the centre.

  “Hello,” I shout as I walk in the porch. The smell of apples and cinnamon comes out to meet me.

  Mom walks around the corner and gives me a peck on the cheek, then wipes off the lipstick she inevitably leaves there. Mom believes everyone needs lipstick. Over the years, she has started to rely more heavily on other makeup like concealers and wrinkle-hiding foundations. I rarely see her now without her face on.

  Most people refer to Mom as “small” or “tiny” but she calls herself petite. Short and thin, she could still manage to buy clothes in the girls’ section except she swears there’s nothing there suitable for a woman of her age so she gets everything tailored to fit her right. Her short hair is kept trim and chestnut brown with a monthly cut and colour.

  “Hello,” Mom says, taking her coffee. She takes a big sip then pulls a sliver of hair behind her ear.

  “I see Mr. Chafe is mowing again.”

  Mom nods.

  “And your lawn looks good too.”

  “He did that yesterday.”

  “I’m telling you, he wants to mow more than your lawn. You should watch out for him.”

  “Oh, Jennifer, ”Mom says. She smiles and there is something in it that makes my heart hurt.

  “You baking a pie?”

  “No.” She bends to pick something up but straightens up again and turns to me. “Do you want me to make you a pie?”

  “No, just smells like apples and cinnamon.”

  “Oh.” She chuckles
. “Plug-in air freshener. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want it? I can get another one.”

  “No, no, that’s okay. ”My mind goes to the overflowing garbage and bag of jeans and vomit back at my place and I’m tempted.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want an air freshener. Honest.”

  My words are meant to curtail a long back and forth of please take it and no, that’s okay, but I think I miscalculated my tone and Mom’s smile leaves.

  “Thanks, though.”

  Mom nods. “You coming in?”

  “Nah, I thought you said you’d like to go to a movie.”

  “I was thinking we could go to that new movie with that guy in it. You know, the one you like,” Mom says as she puts on a pair of shoes then straightens up the remaining pairs on the shoe rack.

  “No, Mom, I don’t know. Which one? I like most of them.”

  “That cute one.”

  I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t narrow down the Hollywood acting scene much.”

  She snaps her fingers. “He used to be in that show, the one with Sarah in it.”

  “Sarah who?”

  “You know, Sarah from The Young and the Restless.”

  I connect my TV and movie dots, trying to remember what Sarah looks like, what other show she was in, who starred with her in it, and then come up with the answer. “Benjamin Ritchie.”

  Mom smiles. “Yes, him. Just like I said. Anyway, want to see that movie?”

  A film about a guy who holds a prostitute hostage, tortures her, then ends up falling in love with her over sexual toys. Not exactly a great afternoon with Mom.

  “Not really. How about that new one with Kevin Costner?”

  “Don’t like him, ”Mom says, shaking her head. “There’s a book launch down at the Anglican Crypt. We could go to that.”

  Yes, and I could poke sticks in my eyes.

  “Our book club is going to read it so I wouldn’t mind seeing the author.”

  “How’s that going? The book club. You like it?”

  Mom smiles. “Yes, I do. It’s fun and I like getting out and talking to people.”